Poor Boy and Matchmaker Extraordinaire
by MousyNona
Summary: Kenny McCormick is always the odd one out. But that's exactly what his friends need: a little outside help when coming out of the closet. Creek, Style, one-sided Cartyle, Tyde, main pairing Bunny.
1. Chapter 1: Kenny

**Disclaimer: **South Park and all characters belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

* * *

"Come on, just tell me what's the matter. Please, you can trust me. I'm not going to tell anyone."

Not going to tell anyone! That's a laugh. As if I'm going to give a shit whether you tell anyone or not. No one cares, no one has been caring, and no one will care; it's like a page torn from a shitty elementary school grammar workbook.

_Nina runs, Nina has been running, Nina will run. _Today, yesterday, and tomorrow, all packaged neatly in one sentence. If only grammar was remotely related to reality, then living might not be such a pain in the ass.

I take death into my lungs and expel, flicking ash from the end of my cigarette like the good little clichéd mess I am. I've seen a hundred clones of my angsty ass on every troubled kid brochure, every movie that has to do with "letting go", every fucking novel that dramatizes whatever problems a kid's got.

Seriously, it's like a person can't even have problems in peace anymore – it's always "I understand", or "I get that a lot". Why? 'Cause you read the latest book on Oprah's "I Recommend This Book Because It is Life-Changing and Shit" list?

"Why are you so shut off? I promise, _promise _not to say a thing. Seriously, I'm worried about you!"

Worried as in how you were worried about the class rabbit. Like how you're worried about getting into heaven, sweet little hypocrite that you are. I don't mind; I like hypocrites. I have to, seeing as I'm a damn good one.

Look at me, the problem child.

"Please, Kenny. Just say something."

Miss, all I'm good for is something to talk about at the dinner table. I can hear it now: the clink of cheap fake affordable silverware on equally affordable plates, quiet chewing, awkward pauses and stops of conversation. And my name, somehow slipped in the middle of all this during a daily exchange of news.

_Hey Dad, remember when I was telling you about Kenny?_

_Yes, of course I do, son._

_Well, he got suspended again for being high in class. Mr. Mackey came into class to talk to us about it and everything._

_Well, the McCormick's were always deadbeats. It's the white trash way. Now eat your peas._

I smirk at the imaginary conversation. At what is imaginary now but is an honest-to-God prophesy that has probably happened a million times before.

She takes my smile the wrong way, and huffs. Wendy has always been easily offended.

"Fine, then! Do what you want! I just came here because of Stan anyway!"

See? What did I tell you? Miss Hypocrite. As if you were seriously worried about me. I toast her back with another cigarette as she storms away. It seems like an occasion worth celebrating with a fresh one.

I'm left in peace for a little while. Then I stand, stretch, and hightail the fuck out of there before school is let out and I see everyone I really don't want to see.

Maybe I'll go and visit Stan-and-Kyle for a little while. I know where they'll be, if Stan's not on another date with Wendy. And Stan's house is only four houses up from mine.

Cartman is an option, but not a favorable one. He still hasn't grown out of his megalomania, although I never expected him to. A Cartman that isn't a selfish, manipulative, psychopathic bastard isn't really Cartman at all. Besides, he's probably with Butters anyway, and I fucking hate Butters.

So that leaves Craig and his gang, or Raisins. Raisins is becoming increasingly more appealing, since I'm still a little annoyed at Stan for siccing Wendy on me and Cartman was never a real choice anyway. And the last time I spoke to Craig was when I asked him for another cigarette.

While I'm thinking, I search my pockets for another cig and come up empty, which decides me. To Craig's it is, then.

When I trudge up Craig's driveway, school has officially been out for an hour. I try ringing the doorbell, but when Craig's mom comes to the door and says no, Craig isn't home yet, he's at that Token's house, I know they won't be back for a while. So I leave.

While I'm walking home, Wendy pops in my head again and I shake angrily to get her _out_. Jesus, seeing her every time I come to school is –in my sincere opinion – more than enough of crazy ambitious career women for an entire lifetime. But then thoughts of Craig come to replace the ones about Wendy and that's hardly any better, because it gets me thinking about things I've been chain-smoking to forget.

I'm an extra. Unneeded in anyone's lives except when they need one more person for a game, some comic relief, advice, a free ear to complain to. I mean nothing to anyone and fucking God I should be used to it by now. Except that it's not something you can get used to.

I fucking hate everyone because they don't actually give a shit about me. Which is why I try not to give a shit about them; I observe and see and don't really give a crap. This strategy works – is _working_ – until some nosy bitch like Wendy comes and gets me thinking about how I hate everyone again. It's a never ending cycle.

I'm familiar with cycles. All white trash are. Drink Pabst Blue Ribbon, get drunk, have sex, give birth to illegitimate kids, set up a meth lab, drink some more. It's our mantra. It's my future.

I slip inside the house, avoiding all the beer bottles so the noise wouldn't wake any deadbeats that might be lying around. When I get to my room, I turn the lock and make sure it's dead quiet before taking off the orange hoodie and slipping under the covers.

I want peace, quiet, to be away from everyone for a little while. And since dying is just like living, I guess sleeping is the only thing that'll help. I'm all set to drift into oblivion when my phone buzzes.

_Getting high stark pond come if you want._

I didn't even need to check the sender information to know it was from Token – only he and Cartman had iPhones, which meant only they used legitimate capitalization and grammar in texts.

And if Token was using, then it meant Craig, Clyde, and maybe Jimmy were there too. Jesus. I get what Token is trying to do here, but seriously. I'm not a fucking errand boy. If Craig likes being the unemotional bastard he is, then by all means, let him be an unemotional bastard. Why bring drama into his life when he's so adamantly rejecting it.

Just because Craig Tucker has a thing for Tweek Tweak and isn't admitting it doesn't mean it's the end of the world. Even if he is being a bigger douche than usual to make up for it. There's no reason why I have to bring Tweek Tweak over with me to humor Token tonight.

There's no question that Token's calling me over so I can bring Tweak without making Craig suspicious. God knows I've brought stranger people with me before, and on any other day I would have done it without a second thought.

But contrary to what public opinion might be, I don't get a sick, masochistic joy from being used

I'm about to throw the phone down when another hurried text comes through. Token must have somehow sensed what I'm thinking because his next text is very, very simple.

_Johnny walker._

That fucking genius mastermind.

I get up, shrug on my hoodie, and figure that if I'm going to sink into oblivion tonight, it might as well be on weed and alcohol that are probably more expensive than my house. With Token there, the quality of the weed might be beyond outstanding and well into high-class, Tony Montoya territory. It made my heart hammer just thinking about it. Besides, if Token wants to play nanny, then it's up to me to play matchmaker, isn't it?

I send him a quick reply and run out the door. It's time to head for Tweak Bro.'s.


	2. Chapter 2: Creek

**Disclaimer: South Park is not mine.**

**AN: A little Creek in this chapter!**

* * *

Craig slouches back in his chair and watches the long hand of the clock move at the pace of a tired snail.

His eyes fall on Kenny's empty seat and wonders briefly if he should take a page out of Kenny's book and get suspended so he can ditch legally. If there's even a way to ditch legally. It has to beat sitting in class all day, especially since he gets nothing out of it. A C- average comes naturally to Craig; getting anything higher or lower would require effort. It really has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he attends class.

He's still thinking about how to get suspended without having to suffer the resulting blow-up from his parents when a note lands on his desk. He doesn't even have to flick it open; _Usual place? _nearly screams at him from its flat expanse, the words neatly printed in block letters. Token's handwriting. Craig looks up, gives Token a nod, and crumples the note into his pocket before anyone else can see it.

Well, at least he's not going straight home today. That's something.

The end of school can't come fast enough, so Craig takes matters into his own hands. He sends a text to Token explaining that he'd gone before them and sets off towards Stark's pond, hands already itching for a cigarette. He makes it out the front door before he pulls out a new pack, a fresh stick already in his fingers when he makes out a voice.

It's definitely Wendy's, if her mind-numbingly shrill tone is anything to go by. Craig stops, unwilling to walk into a confrontation Wendy Testaburger is involved in; that girl is an ambitious piece of bad news.

There's a long silence, and Craig turns to sneak out the back way because he has decided that whoever Wendy's fighting with is clinically dead and he doesn't want to pick up the remains when he overhears something he thought he'd _never _hear her say.

"Please Kenny. Just say something."

Wow, she almost sounds like she's begging. Or the Wendy Testaburger version of begging, which is to sound as self possessed as possible while begging. But that's not the surprising part. Wendy has definitely begged before – but to Stan. To the guidance counselor. Never to _Kenny_.

Damn, McCormick had balls. Or he was brain dead from all that shit he took and that was why he wasn't responding. Knowing Kenny, Craig was definitely betting on the latter.

If he'd cared a little more, he might have gone up to Wendy, given her the middle finger, and taken Kenny with him to Stark's pond for a nice, liberating pot session. If he had been Stan or Kyle, maybe even Butters, he would have.

As it is, he doesn't give a shit. When Wendy starts shouting and her voice goes unbelievably shrill, he takes it as his cue for a quick exit out the back way, before anyone can catch him.

* * *

"Hey Craig, look at who I brought!" A little smile plays over Clyde's lips as he walks into the clearing. Craig tilts his head so that he can see Clyde moving in his peripheral vision.

"What?"

"Just Mr. 'Johnny Walker'." Clyde holds up a bottle of the most fantastic alcohol that has ever graced mankind and smirks.

"Woah." Craig snatches the bottle from Clyde's hands, nestling it so it lies winking in the sun. "Just, wow."

"Yeah, dude. H-how d-d-d-did you get that?" Jimmy demands, a little out of breath from having to shove a bulky crutch into the brush. "It's like, two hundred bucks for one of those."

"I know." Clyde beams, obviously excited at being the center of attention. "My dad got it for a present."

"Dude, he's going to notice it's m-m-m-missing."

"No, he won't…unless he knows the difference between a Johnny Walker and a Jack Daniels."

"You s-s-s-switched the stuff?"

Craig looks down at the bottle and really registers the label for the first time: Jack Daniels.

"Dude, you are totally bullshitting us."

"Nah, don't be fooled by the label. It's a Johnny Walker, I'm serious!" Clyde punctuates his point with a little whine.

"Yeah dude, it's real. I saw him switch it." That's from Token, who has just clambered into clearing. "By the way, I texted Kenny. He's going to be here soon."

"Oh shit man, why'd you do that?" Clyde's whining is seriously getting on Craig's nerves today. He winces from the stabbing pain in his head and reaches for the Johnny Walker, intent on getting completely wasted on Clyde's expensive booze and laugh in his face about it later. Clyde, unfortunately, has been friends with Craig too long and sees it coming.

"No way, you smoker. Haven't you ever heard people say that you have to wait for the good stuff?" Clyde holds the bottle way out of Craig's reach. "And this is _definitely_ the good stuff."

Craig groans and puts his hands over his ears so that he won't have to hear anymore bitching. Its Clyde's win, and he gives a little victorious dance before he rounds on Token again.

"Dude, you obviously aren't aware of how well Kenny can hold his shit so I'm not blaming you at all for calling him over, but this is a _Johnny Walker_."

"Yeah, so?"

Clyde gasps and covers the bottle's ears. Or covers what might have been ears if the bottle had some, anyways. "_So? _Oh poor, deluded Token. A Johnny Walker must be treated with care and love, as if it was a child. Kenny," Clyde spit the name out, "would guzzle it. And that would be the death of our 200 dollar baby, got it?"

"If we're talking about how to treat a Johnny Walker, Kenny should know better than us, man. Boy knows his alcohol."

"That, my friend, is where you're wrong. Kenny knows _cheap_ alcohol. The beauty of a Walker would be lost on his poor boy tastes."

"Dude, that's not cool to say."

"What?"

"You totally sounded like Cartman."

Clyde let out a sigh that sounded more like a embarrassed intake. "Whatever, dude. I still don't want Kenny here. You get what I'm saying, don't you?" When he turned towards Token, his posture had switched from strong and confident to a slight slouch that betrayed all the insecurity Token had always seen in Clyde. "Don't you?"

"Yeah, dude. Don't worry about it."

"No, seriously. I'm not trying to be a douchebag here – I like Kenny as much as you do." Which was a lie. Clyde avoided Kenny as much as he could at school, acted like Kenny was an orange pariah whenever he was around Craig or Token, but Token chose not to comment on it.

"Yeah, whatever. He's still coming, okay?" _He better, _Token thinks, but doesn't say.

"But – "

"I thought you weren't a douchebag?"

Craig throws his free hand in the air. "Fine, but he's not getting any of the Walker."

Uh-oh. "Actually…I promised Kenny first sip."

For a minute, Token thinks he might actually need to splash some water over Clyde's face to prevent a breakdown. Fortunately, Craig beats him to it.

Spluttering, choking on rage, face completely flushed and eyes wide, it takes Clyde a minute to say anything. All he can force out is a strained, "You _what?_"

"Uh…I promised Kenny first sip of the Walker?"

"_No_! What gives you the right to give away my baby like this?"

"Fuck your baby." That's from Craig, who has apparently entered the conversation for good. Token gives him a Look.

_Careful_, is what the Look says. _We have to handle this subtly._

Craig shrugs, leaving Token to pick up from where he left off.

"Clyde, come on. I'll _buy_ your baby from you, if you're really going to be such a bitch about it."

This time Craig gives Token a Look. A Look that says, _Subtle my ass._

It's Token's turn to shrug. Clyde follows this exchange through squinted eyes and gently nestles the bottle in a patch of grass so he can run both hands through his hair.

"Like I was saying, I _might_ let Kenny come, but he can't have any Johnny Walker and he's definitely not getting the first sip."

"Is _that_ what this is about? Wow. I thought you guys were talking about something important, like guinea pigs and shit."

"_Excuse_ me?" And Clyde's gone, yelling all sorts of abuse at Craig for believing guinea pigs are more important than a Johnny Walker, a _freaking Johnny Walker for Chrissakes,_ when Kenny walks into the clearing.

He spots Token and slides up to him, steps soundless in the springy grass.

"I guess you weren't lying about the Johnny Walker." Kenny gives a little nod to Clyde, who's still ranting about the wonders of alcohol to a very bored, very uncaring Craig.

"Yeah, yeah. Where's Tweek?" Token's eyes narrow as they scan the clearing for a white-blonde head, the tell-tale jerky movements, anything. "I know you got what I was trying to say."

Kenny doesn't even bother with any of the perverted jokes he usually makes. Johnny Walker or not, he's still feeling pretty shitty after Wendy's attempt at 'counseling'. Or amateur psychoanalyses – Cartman could do better. "Don't worry, Tweek's on his way."

"What's the hold-up?

Kenny leaves Token for a minute to grab the Jack Daniels-that's-really-a-Johnny-Walker and jogs back with it. He's not having this conversation without getting paid for it first.

"So?" Token demands as soon as Kenny's within earshot. Kenny ignores him in favor of eyeing the bottle and running his hands all over its curves, holding it delicately. It violently reminds Token of Clyde.

"The classic container switch. Nice." Kenny pops the top off and tips some into his mouth, swishing it around a bit before actually swallowing. "Oh. Yeah. _Very_ nice. Mmm."

Token takes the bottle from Kenny as soon as he's done, afraid that Clyde might actually kill them both if he sees Kenny with it. "So? Tweek?"

"You're a good friend, Token." Kenny smiles up at him. "To worry about Craig this much. You're a really nice guy."

"Uh. Thanks." Token surreptitiously makes a note to check the alcohol content of a Johnny Walker later. "Tweek?"

Kenny sighs and leans back onto a nearby rock. "Tweek has to deal with some family issues, so he's not coming here."

"Oh shit. _Not_ cool, man. Now Clyde's going to kill us for no reason." Token jerks away from Kenny, taking the Johnny Walker with him. "And if you think I'm going to let you smoke _anything_, you're craz – "

"I said, 'he's not coming _here'." _ Kenny makes a half-hearted swipe for the Walker before Token pulls it further out of reach, motioning for him to go on. "He hates this shit anyway. He said it was too much pressure, or something."

"Yeah, sounds like Tweek."

"So I told him he doesn't have to do anything, that we just want him there 'cause we like him or some shit like that."

"Uh-huh."

"He still said no, he has to man the counter or else the gnomes will come and steal all the underwear in the store."

"I'm not seeing where this is going."

"No, because I haven't finished yet. Like I was saying; so after he was done with his usual Tweek crap, I told him okay, you can come later then. To Token's place."

"_My _place? Why mine? This is for Craig, remember?"

"Yeah, but Craig's parents are assholes. It's hereditary."

"And why does Stark's pond not work out?"

"Because we're talking about Tweek? He's not going to feel 'safe' here, and Craig won't make any progress after all, and he'll be a moody bitch all week because _you're _the uncooperative ass who didn't help out. Besides, you've got that huge guest bedroom."

"I'm going to get killed by Clyde later for letting you get first sip of the Johnny Walker, and you're calling _me _an uncooperative ass?"

"Just be a friend and let Craig and Tweek use your extra bed?"

"Oh, sick dude! I didn't need to think about that!"

"You thought about it? Token, you closet perv, you." Kenny flashes him a swift grin before looking down at his lap, smile falling. "Look, I'm not Cartman, I don't make perfect plans, okay? But here's how I think it's going to go down: we go to your house, light up some joints, make things comfy while we wait for Tweek. Hopefully, his shift won't end too late and we won't be completely shit-faced when he comes. He told me it should end at about one thirty – you make sure Craig doesn't have too many until then while I make sure everyone else doesn't know their own name."

"Okay, I can do that."

"Cool. So we do that, and we do it in that fancy place you keep your good stuff."

"You mean my basement?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Why do I have to crack out the good stuff though?" Token frowns. "I'm saving it."

"Look, dude. You think everyone here'll move if you don't offer them better stuff than what you have there?" Kenny nods at the bag lying by Token's feet where Token always stashes the weed.

"Fine. What do we do after that?"

"Let things happen naturally, I guess. We can't really force them together. But," Kenny grins and pokes Token in the side, "there's one part that you won't really like."

"What's that?" Token's wary, to say the least. Kenny is one of the most unpredictable people he knows.

"We gotta make Craig realize his feelings."

"Okay…and how do we do that?"

"I take Tweek…"

"Mmhm."

"And very nearly take off his pants."

"Mm – wait. Wait, wait, hold up. No. What is this going to do except make Craig confused?"

"Make him jealous, which will make him understand he wants to bone Tweek."

"Dude, Craig isn't the type to get jealous. He had like, one girlfriend in his entire life, and when Clyde took her he just gave her up. No fights, no yelling – he didn't even flip Clyde off!"

"Wow, that's weird."

"Yeah, he was playing a video game or something so his hands were full. Point is, he doesn't give a crap about relationships!"

"Uh-huh. Well, this isn't just a relationship, dude."

"Huh. Last time I checked, being someone's boyfriend is a relationship."

Kenny sighs, as if Token is being unbearably stupid. Maybe he is, but Token's been Craig's best friend since elementary school and he's never seen Craig with actual emotions before. Happy yeah, sometimes actually pleased and definitely smug, but he's never seen him _passionate_.

He tries to tell Kenny this, but Kenny won't have any of it. "I'm telling you Token, this is different."

"Are you telling me you know my best friend better than me, asshole?" Token rarely cusses, but he thinks the situation calls for it. He's actually pretty pissed about now.

Kenny puts both hands up in surrender. "Hell no. I'm just saying that Craig doesn't ditch a pot session to go to someone's house and convince them to come back to school if he doesn't care."

"What?" Token's jaw almost drops. "Are you saying – that _Craig – "_

Kenny nods.

"Oh shit. This is serious."

"Considering you called me over and all that, I thought you knew."

"Uh, no. I knew that Craig was pretty heartsick over Tweek. Not that he'd become somebody else I don't even know in the past few weeks."

"No, he's definitely still Craig. Just not as much to Tweek."

"Alright, so," Token shakes his head, obviously trying to get the world to stop spinning out of sense and just stay still for once. "So we make him jealous."

"_I_ make him jealous. No offense dude, but you're not so good at the whole getting-someone-into-bed thing."

"Right, you. Okay."

"And after he gets jealous, I bet he's gonna head home since you bet your ass he's gonna be fucking confused."

"And we make Tweek follow him?"

A slow smile creeps up Kenny's face. "Yeah. That's exactly what we do."

Token runs a hand over his face. "Look, Kenny…if everything works out tonight, Craig's going to owe you big time."

"Don't forget, you owe me one too."

"Oh, right. Clyde." Token's cheeks pink at the memory. "Uh, thanks for that, by the way."

"No problem. By the way, did you bring any joints?"

Token reaches into the bag that's slung over his shoulder and throws a joint onto Kenny's orange hoodie instead of answering. Kenny lights it without any real hurry, letting the smoke roil into his mind and down his throat with a satisfied sigh.

"I knew you'd come through for me." The joint is everything he has dreamed of and more, so he throws an appreciative smile in Token's general direction pulling another long drag.

"That smile isn't going to get you more weed, you know."

"What do you mean?" Kenny asks, innocence written all over his face.

"Oh, don't try that with me – " Token starts, but is interrupted by Craig plopping down beside the rock Kenny's perched on.

"Hey Kenny. Didn't know you were coming." Craig says, taking the joint from his hand and sucking on it himself before Kenny could move away.

"Where's Clyde?" Token checks behind Craig. "I need to be prepared for what he's going to do to me. I'm not ready to die yet."

"So Kenny took first sip, huh." Kenny nods, although it isn't really question. "Alright, cool. By the way, this is some good weed, Token."

"Huh? Oh, thanks." Token trots off somewhere, probably to find the dramatically hormonal man-beast that is also known as Clyde. Craig flips him off without any real heat.

"That poor kid. It's not even his turn to calm Clyde down."

Kenny chuckles. "Token's a good friend dude. You can't even guess how good of a friend he is."

"Yeah?" Craig takes another good, steady drag of the joint before passing it back to Kenny.

"Yeah. So good, in fact, that he told me we're going to move this thing to his place. That's where all the good stuff's stashed, right?"

"Damn, how'd you get him to agree to that? He rations his stuff like a motherfucking mother hen."

"Oh, he has a good reason." Kenny smiles at Craig in a way that makes his skin crawl, just a little. Cheshire cat would have been proud. "A real fucking good reason."

"Then let's go."

It takes Craig a minute to rally everyone aside from Clyde, five to unearth Clyde from where he's sulking, two to stop Clyde from choking Token, and one to laugh while Clyde chokes Kenny. The five of them – Craig, Token, Clyde, Jimmy, and Kenny (who had miraculously survived due to Token's grudging help) – tramps down to Token's house in the record time of fifteen minutes, total. They all know because Clyde shouts out the number as they burst through Token's gate.

"Guys! Oh shit guys we're fucking perfect I'm telling you! Jesus Holy we're record breakers! Record breakers! We're going to be famous!"

Token has to restrain himself from copying Clyde's killing spree earlier. On Clyde. "Shut up! The neighbors will hear!"

Clyde is way too shit-faced to care what Token has to say and manages to reel himself to Token's doorway while the rest of the group looks on. It's only after the third attempt in finding the door that Token steps in and gently maneuvers him in the right direction.

There's silence for a moment before Craig follows Clyde in, nudging Token on his way past.

"Nice boyfriend you've got there." He says in his usual bland way, so factually that Token can't really argue with it. So he tries to punch him instead, although Craig is too fast for him and swerves out of the way just in time.

"Hey guys, break it up. We can't get inside." Kenny calls from where he's hidden behind Jimmy. "The drugs are wasting away. Besides, it's almost one. Got that?"

Token nods, hearing Kenny's unspoken, _hurry the fuck up_ and heads down the hallway. "Here guys, the drugs are in the basement."

There's a muffled cheer from behind him, and Token doesn't need to turn around to figure out who it's from. "Shut up, Kenny."

"Dude, we need to get shit-faced tonight." There's a grin in Kenny's voice, and although Token is nerve-wracked, scared for Craig and Tweek, still a bit doubtful about what he's about to do, and completely exasperated at his boyfriend, he smiles back. There's just something about Kenny's infectious enthusiasm for everything that kills a couple hundred brain cells.

Then of course Clyde ruins it all by puking on his mother's favorite rug.

"Dude! That's _Persian_!"

* * *

Tweek Tweak's natural state is confused. He's confused pretty much all the time, and that's why he takes Kenny waltzing into Tweek Bro.'s and asking him to smoke with them as a natural part of life.

But smoking! As if he isn't fucked up enough already by the coffee. Besides, no one asks Tweek Tweak to hang out anymore, so he writes Kenny's offer down as another government conspiracy and says no like a normal person.

Although that's not strictly true. Craig still comes around from time to time, but Kenny is not Craig and he's definitely not up to any good. Last time Tweek tagged along with Kenny (and Stan and Kyle and Cartman), he found himself in Mexico.

Mexico! Why Mexico? What bad thing had he ever done to land himself in Mexico?

Anyways, that was quite the traumatic experience for him and he refused to step outside for a few weeks after. He still remembers how Craig came to talk to him, told him straight out how much he hated those guys for sending him to Peru, so it was okay to tell him about Mexico.

"After all," he'd said, "Peru's pretty bad but Mexico's worse than hell."

So Tweek had. He told him everything, straight from the Mexican government kidnapping them after Cartman had enraged them with all his talk about burritos to Kyle's breakdown and Cartman's resulting broken leg. He finished with how he'd been right all along with his government conspiracy theories and he didn't care if no one believed him, not even Craig. He'd fully expected Craig to laugh, maybe cuss him out for it, but instead Craig had reached for him.

"Hey dude, it's okay. No one believes me when I talk about giant guinea pigs either." He shakes his head. "Do you remember them, or are you brain-washed like the rest of South Park?"

Tweek had started. "O-of course I remember them! Th-they were so _big_ and – _ngh – _they ripped apart everything! How do you forget that?"

"I don't know. But everyone did. Well, everyone except for you and me, I guess." Then Craig had awkwardly patted his hand and left, hurrying a bit more than usual.

Tweek had gone to school the next day, and what did it matter if no one had noticed he'd been gone if Craig was waiting for him at the school gate?

Tweek wonders now if maybe he should take Kenny up on his offer. If everyone was at Token's house, then Craig might be there. _Craig. _He hadn't seen Craig for a week, and there was an aching, hollow feeling in his stomach that he desperately wanted filled. Just the thought of Craig made the wanting flare, ripping up and down his ribs.

Tweek bites his lip. The fear of being caught by the government and sent the Mexico isn't any less, but he thinks he might be less afraid if he could just see Craig. Is that enough?

Tweek deftly wipes the counter down and grabs his coat before he can change his mind.

"M-mom, Dad, I'm going to – _gah – _ my friend's house!"

* * *

The doorbell to Token's house rings at one-thirty on the dot and Token flings open the door before the echoes die away. He almost crows when he sees Tweek there, eyes blown wide from his sudden movement.

"Jesus! You – _ngh_ – could have hit me!"

"Sorry dude. Uh, come in."

Tweek steps in carefully, as if waiting for the hallway to explode or Mexican guards to spring from their hiding places. When neither of these things happens, he looks a little more assured.

"Uh, hi, Token. W-where's Craig?"

Token smiles as if nothing Tweek has ever done has made him happier than what he just said. "In the basement. Come on."

They walk down the stairs in silence, Token still smiling like a fool and Tweek completely awestruck by the sheer number of _rooms_ there were in this place. Jesus, he could get lost in here and starve in a closet while no one noticed! He could get trapped in one of those bear statues and die! He could –

"Hey Token, who was at the door?"

It's Craig, and all of Tweek's fears get shoved in the back of his brain while he looks at Craig, really _looks _at him because Craig is probably far too wasted to notice for once.

Craig is well-built, not as bulky as Stan and not as lean as Kenny, somewhere just around the middle with muscles in all the right places. He's not too tall either, but taller than Tweek. It's like the Three Little Bears story: Craig isn't too big, and not too small. He's _just right. _Tweek lets his eyes trail down Craig's compact chest until they settle on his belt, heat flooding in his cheeks as he realize exactly where he's staring.

_Oh shit! No! What's going on with me?_

Craig is, in fact, not wasted at all. He's _drunk_, sure, but for some reason Token's been keeping him away from the good stuff and he's far more sober than he strictly should be. Which is why when Tweek starts _eyeing _him, he notices, for Chrissakes. He notices and he doesn't pull away or punch him in the face like he usually does when Kenny visually strips him down. Actually, he thinks he might like it.

Craig Tucker doesn't like _anything_ that is even remotely close to sexual.

But with Tweek everything's different, and Craig has no idea why. Maybe it's the whole Peru and Mexico thing. Maybe it's because Tweek reminds him of Stripe for some reason: all soft and twitchy and blonde with those big, big eyes. Maybe it's because he knows Tweek means him no harm, and that he probably isn't aware of what he's doing to Craig.

So Craig returns the favor, and stares back at Tweek. When Kenny stumbles in from the bedroom where he's been necking with Jimmy they're still at it, locked in their own private world where nothing existed except for Tweek, Craig, and little Craig.

Kenny takes one look at the bulge little Craig's making and dissolves into little wasted snickers.

"Look guys, you know I'm all for exhibitionism or some shit like that, but it's not really _sex _until you take your clothes off."

"Fuck off, Kenny. We're not doing anything." Craig's voice is contorted in what would have been called a growl on anyone else. But this is _Craig _so Tweek's pretty sure it's not.

"Really? 'Cause it looks to me like you guys are having a blast eye-fucking each other. Mind if I join?" Kenny smirks as Craig breaks eye contact with Tweek.

"Fuck _off_, McCormick." Craig pushes Kenny out of the way as he leaves, not looking back at Tweek once. Tweek's heart sinks like a stone.

There's a long silence that follows after, until Kenny comes over to sit beside him and put an arm over his shoulder.

"Hey, dude, that wasn't your fault."

"Jesus Kenny, of c-course it was. What was I doing? Oh fuck, was I really, uh, doing what you said I was doing?"

"Yeah." Kenny supplies helpfully, "But don't worry. Craig didn't mind at all."

"R-really? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, really." Kenny pulls Tweek slightly closer to him and Tweek lets himself fall, completely exhausted and two hours past his bedtime to care what's going on. Kenny's not Craig, anyway.

The two share another silence, this one just two degrees more companionable, when Kenny starts. "Hey Tweek?"

"Y-yes?"

"You're falling asleep." Kenny points out, and Tweek realizes he's right. He's almost gone and he hadn't even noticed.

"Uh, I-I guess I – _ngh_ – am?"

"Do you wanna sleep on an actual bed?"

"S-sure."

Kenny nods and takes Tweek by the arm, leading him to the now-free guest bed directly upstairs. Tweek is so tired he honestly has no clue where he's going, only knows there is ground beneath him and gentle pressure on his arm. He's not too uncomfortable around Kenny. It's probably because Kenny doesn't talk all that much.

Like Craig…

"…ek?"

"Mmmphm?"

He hears Kenny chuckling softly from somewhere close. "We're here."

"Oh. Uh."

"Can you get on the bed?"

"Uh."

"Okay." Tweek clings to the only solid feeling of support until he feels the ground disappear from beneath his feet. His body seizes up like he's been electrocuted and he gives off an almighty yelp before thrashing at whoever has him. Hell no, he's never going to Mexico again! Never!

"Dude, Tweek, calm the fuck down!" Kenny puts him down on the bed and moves a safe distance away from Tweek's flailing limbs. It takes him a while, but eventually Tweek stops battling with his imaginary foe and lets his arms fall to his sides, completely limp and panting.

"Jesus, Tweek. You okay?"

Tweek meets Kenny's eyes rather sheepishly. "Y-yeah, I – _ngh_ – thought you were the Mexican government."

"Yeah, I figured." Kenny scoots closer to Tweek and runs his hand through the unruly curls, rubbing the snarls out with one hand. Tweek moans at how good it feels –like a warm cup of coffee on a cold day – and arches into the contact.

"The fuck?"

Both Kenny and Tweek freeze in place, knowing without a doubt exactly who that bland voice belonged to. Kenny ducks into his jacket, unable to hold in his snicker, while Craig stands stock-still in the doorway.

Craig Tucker doesn't know how to deal with angry. He's never been this fucking pissed before, not when they canceled Red Racer, not when someone messed with his chullo, not even when he got stuck in Peru. He's never had to deal with this, this fucking pitiful _war_ in his head over what to do. He's never, not once, been this undecided before. He's never had anything less than complete control over what he felt.

He has two options. Kill Kenny, or rip Tweek away from Kenny's slutty fucking whore hands and fuck him dry, killing Kenny afterwards.

All these emotions, some of them not anger, not anger but pure, unadulterated _lust_ fucking scares him and he backs away, mumbling some apology, an excuse, maybe an insult, before striding out the door. And then out another door. And another. He doesn't know he's outside until the sidewalk hits him straight in the face, and he picks himself up without a word or a whimper.

He has to go. Go where? Go home, where he's safe, where he's surrounded by apathetic bastards and an apathetic life. Where there isn't a twitchy little kid who's an absolute bomb waiting to explode on someone's life, their beliefs, their fucking identity.

A twitchy little kid that he might actually want to have sex with. If the 'fucking him dry' part of his options was any indication.

_Christ. _Get home. He has to make it home.

* * *

Back at Token's, Tweek and Kenny try to follow Craig but gives up when Craig clears the gate, although they're soon joined by a very confused Token and Clyde.

"_Gah_! W-what did I do wrong?" Tweek turns to Kenny, who's closest. "Why's he so angry?"

"He's angry?" Kenny looks honestly surprised. "He looked the same to me."

"Yeah, he seemed as bored as he always does. Except for, you know. The whole bleeding out of his nose and walking off like he didn't even notice part." Token chips in.

Tweek shakes his head. "How can you not see it? He's totally – _ngh_ – pissed off!"

"If he is, then you're the only one who can tell." Token says, and Tweek tears at his head with his hands.

"_Ngh_! Too much _pressure_!"

"Yeah, buddy, I think so too." Token pats Tweek on the back. "Go and make ol' Craig feel better."

"Why me?"

"'Cause you're the only who can tell he needs cheering up." Kenny puts in with his trademark grin. Token sees it's not the Cheshire cat one and sighs in relief.

"But…but what if I mess up? What if he gets - _gah_ – mad at me? I can't take it!"

"Well, if you don't go, he's just going to stay mad. Besides, didn't you tell me he cheered you up when you were going through that whole Mexico thing?"

"Y-yeah…but that's different."

"How?" Token prods Tweek's side gently. "It's the same situation now."

"_Gah! _It really, really isn't!" Tweek's hands found their way to his head again, tugging so hard on his hair that Kenny had to restrain him from pulling something out. His scalp, maybe.

"Look, Tweek, I need to ask you something." Kenny takes a long breath, as if he's about to say a lot and doesn't want to stop in the middle. "Do you think Craig "lasers can shoot out of my eyes and I won't give a shit" Tucker would go to one of our houses to make us come back to school? Hell no. Do you know what that tells me?"

Tweek shakes his head no, eyes blown wide with fright at Kenny's sudden outburst. It's completely out of the ordinary for Kenny to say anything that required more than two sentences or a perverted smile. Like, out of South Park ordinary, which that he has just committed the equivalent of becoming the fucking Messiah in normal terms. Or Keanu Reeves.

Kenny shakes his own head, although he does it out of annoyance rather than fright. "It tells me that Craig cares a whole fucking lot for you. I don't know why, maybe you worked some sexy moves on him when no one was looking or some shit like that, but he cares for you a lot more than he cares for anyone else. Hell, the only thing he might like more than you is Stripe, and Stripe's a guinea pig. Sweetheart, your competition is a fucking guinea pig, and I know you're better than that. So you go chase after him, okay? 'Cause if he's in a shitty mood only someone he cares about is gonna cheer him up."

Tweek nods and runs off after Craig, his white blonde head disappearing as it turns the corner. Everyone watches him go, then turns to Kenny.

"What?" Kenny shrugs, innocent expression fixed on his face as he stares back at all of them. "Let's go back inside; our darling Johnny Walker is wasting away. I think last sip should go to Clyde."

Clyde gives a drunken cheer and promptly throws up onto Token's topiary bush.

"Oh, dude! Not on the _hippo_!"


	3. Chapter 3: Creek

**Disclaimer: South Park is Trey Parker and Matt Stone's. Not mine.**

**A/N: There was no proofreading involved in the creation of this chapter, so if you see a mistake, please, please tell me! I'd love to know.**

**A/N 2: By the way, this chapter is short because it mostly consists of Craig being confused and Kenny being a wise ass. You have been warned.**

* * *

Tweek is running after Craig, knows he's running after Craig, but he feels more like he's floating down the streets, weightless and free. As if the weight he's been carrying has been lifted off his shoulders. It's uncanny, it's bizarre, it just _doesn't happen_ because he's never weighed less than three hundred pounds his entire life.

He thinks he might be _happy. _Happier than he's been in a long, long time, and it confuses the hell out of him. Jesus, it makes no sense! He's scared out of his mind because Craig probably hates him – no, definitely hates him – and will probably never talk to him again.

No, definitely will never talk to him again. He'll stop treating Tweek like he's special, like he's someone who should be proud to be Tweek Tweak, and it'll be awful –

But he can't stop smiling. To be honest, Tweek would be scared if he wasn't scared on a daily basis. Now he's plain terrified.

Jesus! Stop smiling!

He starts shaking his head to try and dislodge the curve around his mouth, and he's still shaking his head when he crashes head first into something hard.

"Oompf!" The force of impact propels Tweek backwards, arms flailing. He desperately tries to right himself, but before he can do a thing his body starts twisting in an arc towards the ground. He shoots his hands behind him in a desperate, spastic attempt to save himself and squeezes his eyes shut. Tweek isn't about to watch as he snaps off whatever breakable part he happens to land on.

He waits for the inevitable to happen. And waits. And waits until he realizes that his fall is way overdue, something soft is pressing into his side instead, and he should probably figure out what's going on. Trembling, he lets one eye open just a crack.

Craig is watching him. Craig. Had it been anyone else, Tweek might have reacted with a little more dignity, but this was _Craig_. Craig had seen him fall like an idiot, Craig had witnessed his idiotic 'self-defense', and it was Craig that had grabbed him before he could reach the ground.

Correction: was still grabbing him. As in, the pressed against each other, no space between them at all sort of grab. They're flush against each other, Tweek's hip nestled snugly against Craig's thigh and faces two inches apart.

It's the sort of hold that should violate all of Tweek's personal space issues. It should make him angry. It should, at the very least, make him want to hide in a hole somewhere. But it doesn't.

Worse, it feels _right_. Which is completely, completely wrong.

So Tweek does the one thing he knows how to do in emergency situations and _screams._ Craig drops him like a hot potato and steps back, his deadpan expression refusing to change. Tweek stares at Craig while he picks himself up and brushes off the front of his pants, wondering if Craig glued his face on every morning. It would sure explain a lot.

"_Ngh_! Sorry." Tweek finally says, more to break the awkward silence than out of any actual remorse. At least he's safe from that disturbing _rightness_.

Tweek doesn't think he's ever felt so comfortable in his life. And when he finally meets Craig's steady gaze, he thinks Craig might have felt it too. There's an uncertain slant Craig's deadpan look now, as if he's been backhanded by some obvious truth that he can't keep running from.

"It's okay." Craig replies, then reaches down to pick his things up off the floor.

_The things he dropped to save me, _Tweek thinks, and reaches over to put a hand on Craig's arm before he can think about what he's doing. Which is why when he _does _think, it's far, far too late to repair the damage.

Because he's kissing Craig. He's kissing him and it's not icy cold like Tweek sometimes imagines it to be when he allows himself to think about it. Craig's lips are so soft and so hot and Tweek has never felt anything that feels better than this right now.

Craig groans a little and wraps an arm around Tweek, flooding all of Tweek's nerve endings with the same delicious heat that's on his lips. He whines and leans into Craig further, begging for more.

Craig gives it to him, and soon they're entrenched so deeply inside each other that Tweek doesn't know where he ends and Craig begins. Then he doesn't know anything at all because the warmth on his mouth has become searing _heat _and they're lips are open and, oh _Jesus_, Craig's tongue is wrapping firmly around his.

They stay like this for seconds or minutes or hours, tongues slipping into each other's mouths, sharing and giving warmth until Tweek feels Craig's mittened hands cupping around his chest. It makes him stiffen and he has to drag himself away an inch to mutter softly, "I'm not a girl, Craig."

It's Craig's turn to stiffen.

"Shit."

Tweek's eyes widen as he realizes what he's just done, but before he can say a thing Craig's ripped himself away.

* * *

"K-Kenny, can I - _gah_ – talk to you?"

Kenny takes one look at Tweek's anxious fumbling, then nods and waves Stan away. Tweek has a second to wonder why Stan and Kenny are together so often lately before Kenny rounds on him.

"Yeah?"

"It's about C-Craig."

"Yeah, I figured."

"Y-you did?" Tweek yelps, immediately filling in all the gaps with likely stories. "Who told you? Was it the – _ngh_ – government?"

"Nah, nothing like that. Don't worry about it."

"O-okay." Tweek looks down at his hands. Kenny thinks this might just be the universal 'I'm super fucking nervous so for the love of Christ Kenny help me' signal. Or maybe he's just being egotistical.

Tweek has to take a couple deep breaths before he can force the words out. "I need some a-advice. Token said you might be able to help?"

Nope. Kenny wasn't being egotistical at all. Apparently he is now the entire male population of South Park's go-to guy for relationship advice. He sighs and lights a cigarette, settling down to another fucking therapy session that probably had something to do with gay, gay, and being gay with your best friends.

Instead of telling Tweek exactly what's on his mind, though, Kenny just says, "Really? About what?"

"Um, Craig. He's b-being – _oh God_ – insecure? Oh Jesus, I don't know!"

Bingo. Kenny should really be on T.V. for this or something, except that he doesn't really want to be the next _Queer Eye for the Straight Guy_.

"Insecure about you?"

"Yes! No! I don't know, this is too much _pressure_!"

"Calm down, Tweek." Kenny puts as much calm as he can into the words. If he's learned anything from the past couple years of being in class with the kid, it's that demonstrating calm is the fastest way to making him calm. That's probably why Craig is so good for him. The guy's so calm and cool he's subzero.

"Y-yeah, calm. Calm."

They share a companionable silence for a while; Kenny taking a couple drags on his cigarette and Tweek staring at a blank stretch of wall until his vibrating has visibly lessened.

"Okay, you good?" Kenny asks after he's almost finished with his first cig, and Tweek nods. "Fucking A. So what's up with him now?"

"A-after Token's party, you know how I chased after Craig?"

"Mmm."

"And, and, I ran into him and he caught me and then we were really, really – _ngh_ – close and then it was just like _poof_ everything felt great? So we were like looking at each other – "

"Slow down sweetheart, I can't understand a fucking thing."

" – looking at each other and then we kissed." Tweek flushes, like Kenny's caught him doing something scandalous.

"Wow, that's great. Don't see what the problem is."

"I don't know." Tweek looks at him sadly, which really isn't _fair_, considering that Tweek's eyes seem to be made for puppy eyes. "It's like, I'm alright with weird, 'cause I've been weird my entire life. No one likes me either, so it's not like I'm – _ngh_ – losing anything by liking Craig. But Craig's different."

"Different?"

Tweek nods, one short duck of his head. "He has friends. And he has a – _gah _– reputation, I guess, but I don't think that's – _ngh – _what's troubling him."

"So what is it?"

"It's – " Tweek drops his voice to a whisper, and Kenny's forced to bend down to hear everything he's saying. "I've known I like – _ugh_ – guys since middle school."

Kenny's eyebrows jump so far at this that they disappear into the hood of his parka. Damn, he never expected that to ever come out of Tweek's mouth. It was the sort of thing that was _too much pressure_ for anyone. And Tweek was a guy that thought laundry was _too much pressure._

"Not just any guys, you know? Just, certain guys." Tweek blushes. "But I d-don't think Craig liked guys. Um, before. He tried to – _ngh_ – grope my chest."

"Oh, god." Kenny runs a hand through his hair, taking a minute to let this sink in. "Okay. So Craig is being…insecure in coming out?"

"_Ngh_! Yeah?" Tweek looks unsure, but Kenny disregards this. Tweek is unsure of everything.

"That's completely normal, Tweek. Just give him a little time."

"It's been –_gah_ – three weeks!"

"A little more time."

"_Ack! _Kenny, I don't think it's going to w-work out."

Kenny sighs again, and this time it's audible through his hood. "Why is that, Tweek?"

"B-because! He's just going to act l-like nothing happened – "

"But this isn't just his problem, is it? It's about you, too." Kenny throws what's left of his cigarette on the ground. "Tweek, you just said that you like certain guys, right?"

"Yeah, b-but they're not Craig – "

"Let me finish. You said you like guys, right?"

"Y-yeah…"

"Then why haven't I ever seen you with one? Truth be told, this is your first real relationship, isn't it?"

"It's n-not a _relationsh_ – _"_

"Tweek, don't try this with me. Not fucking right now." Tweek jerks his head up at Kenny's sudden harsh tone and notices for the first time how run-down Kenny looks. How tired and crumpled, like his old orange parka. It's completely unnerving.

Kenny searches through his pockets to see if he has a cigarette and, through some mercy of God, manages to find one. He doesn't waste any time in lighting it and breathes in a gorgeous plume of nicotine before he levels a gentle stare at Tweek. "You guys are going to work out, trust me. But someone has to take the first step. And since ol' Craig is _insecure_, looks like there's one person left to do it."

"What, me?" Tweek yelps in fear. "No, no, no, I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"I-I'll just screw it up!"

"So are you just going to leave it like it is now?"

"…No." Tweek has to screw his eyes shut so the knowledge about what he has to do doesn't hit him. "No, I-I can't do that either."

"Awesome. Next time you come around, I expect Craig to be with you. And screwing you in public bathrooms when no one's looking." Kenny gives a cheeky grin at Tweek's sudden blush before pushing himself off the wall and wrapping Tweek's hand around something he's taken from his pocket. "Don't worry, you guys are almost there. Just take that first step, sweetheart. Talk to him."

"W-wait! Kenny!" Tweek tries to get him to stop, desperation keying his voice a few octaves higher than normal, but Kenny just waves without turning back.

* * *

Craig is currently a bit pissed that the right to take a piss in peace isn't in the first Ten Amendments.

"The toilet is the last bastion of American freedom," he whispers under his breath as he sees a white-blonde boy standing squarely next to him, shaking visibly but refusing to move.

"W-what?"

"Nevermind." Craig doesn't look at Tweek at all as he finishes up.

"Craig, I – c-can I talk to you?"

"No." Craig reaches for a paper towel when he realizes Tweek is standing right in front of them. Maybe he could maneuver around him somehow?

"P-please Craig, I-I just want things to be – _gah_ – normal again."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"_Ack!_ Look, I know I st-started the kiss but you can't just _deny_ that you r-reciprocated!"

Okay, fuck the towels. Craig is about to hightail it the fuck out of there when a hand shoots out and grabs him by the wrist. A very clammy, twitchy hand.

"I didn't. Let go."

"Y-you did!"

"No, I didn't."

"Y-you _did_!" Tweek shouts it in exasperation. "You _did_ and w-we need to talk about it!"

"No, I didn't and we don't."

"Jesus!" Tweek's right eye starts twitching and Craig has the distinct feeling that if Tweek had his hands free he would have torn out his hair some time ago. "I-I _liked _it Craig."

"Yeah. You started it."

"D-don't try that with me!" Cheeks scarlet, body shaking so hard his teeth are rattling, his fingers clamped on Craig's arm like he's trying to throttle the life out of it, Tweek Tweak was not at his most sane. "I know you l-liked it too! I c-c-could see it!"

"No."

"_Craig!"_ Craig flinches at the utter pleading in Tweek's voice. "Please, just t-try and think about it! You liked it, didn't you?"

Tweek's uncertain. Craig can almost _read_ the uncertainty written in his large hazel eyes and is about to pound one more crack into Tweek's attack when he realizes he doesn't want to.

He doesn't want to, even if it means a way out of this entire mess. He knows if he crushes Tweek now, there will be no more emotions, no more of this troubling 're-examining of identity' thing he's been going through; he'll be free. He knows this and won't take that last step because –

Because it means that Tweek'll never talk to him again.

"Oh God." Craig groans at what he's just realized. Tweek jerks, looks at him straight in the eyes with hope written everywhere.

"Why is it me?" Craig's desperate. He wants to get out, he's suffocating under the pressure of so many emotions, but he's just found out he can't go back to being the Tweek-less, independent Craig from before. So what does he do now? Why the fuck does it have to be him?

"I don't know."

It's the first stutter-free sentence from Tweek in this entire conversation.

"I don't know why, Craig, but for me it just. Feels right. With you." Tweek is shaking so hard that Craig can feel the tremors rattling the bones in his shoulder. "I-I don't know why."

"I guess I know what you're talking about." Except there's no guessing about it. Craig might not put it in those same words – _feels right_ is such an emotional term – but he's comfortable with Tweek like he is with no one else.

Now that he thinks about it, Craig first found being apathetic difficult when Tweek had shown up in his life. And even if he wishes his guts out that he could go back to that not-caring, he can't. Tweek's done something inside of him, shaken everything out of place and blown out the fuse so he can't put everything back where it was.

And god knows he's been trying. He's never had to try at anything before, and all of the sudden he realizes why: it hurts like a bitch to deny something.

Maybe it's the way Craig is, but he's sick of trying. He's done. So he likes men. It doesn't mean he's like Mr. Garrison (hell no) and yeah, he might not be the same Craig but he doesn't think this Tweek, the Tweek who can stand there shaking and still talk without a single tremor, is the same either.

They're moving somewhere, and Craig is tired of trying to push it back.

So he does the typical Craig thing and goes the easiest direction, the most comfortable direction possible: he kisses Tweek.

It's as good as their first one, just like Craig remembers it. It's hot but warm at the same time, and this time when he melds into the heat of Tweek, he takes a deep breath in.

Tweek literally smells like a nice, hot cup of coffee after a cold winter's day and when Craig breathes his special kind of spice something unravels in his chest. He doesn't know what to call it, but it's probably one of the best things he's found about Tweek so he keeps breathing.

Tweek giggles when he finds out what Craig's doing and breathes him in, too. Craig smells like wintermint and ice, if ice had a scent, and it cuts into Tweek like a revelation.

"I'm not shaking," Tweek whispers into Craig's ear, and Craig nods because it's the truth.

"It feels like I can finally breathe." Tweek smiles and Craig nods again, because that's what it is. Then Craig lets his hand snake into Tweek's pants and Tweek lets out a moan that flares something in Craig, like when Tweek _looked _at him at Token's party. Craig moves his hand deeper, faster, and there's nothing puppy-like about the way lust drenches Tweek's gaze now.

"We can use the l-lube," Tweek manages to moan out, and everything from there is heat.

Their first time is in the public bathroom because to Craig it's the most convenient place, and a bed is some scary shit to Tweek. There's no compromising, no awkward whispers or fumbling while they place themselves, and sometime while Craig's fitting them together, he manages a vague thought that this isn't how it's supposed to be before Tweek clamps down, hard, on his dick. After that, he can't remember a thing except for the heat. A lot of it.

When he brings this up with Tweek later, Tweek just shrugs and says it might be because Tweek was always a part of Craig.

There's some truth in that, too.

Then Craig asks where Tweek had gotten the lube, and Tweek starts as if he's forgotten all about it.

"Jesus! I need to give that back to Kenny! _Augh_, he's gonna kill me!"


	4. Chapter 4: Style

**A/N: Hey, it's been a while! I was actually away on vaca, so there weren't any new updates for a while. But here, have some Style! In Kenny's first person POV, of course. **

**A/N 2: From here on out, if there's any Bunny in a chapter, it's going to be in first person. Otherwise, the story is in third! Confusing, I know.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own South Park.**

* * *

It's common knowledge in South Park that the McCormicks are white trash. I'm white trash with white trash parents and a white trash brother (Karen doesn't count, she's different from us, she'll _make it_); hell, we're so white trash the term probably came from our fucking direct ancestors. That's how white and trashy we are.

I live in the South Park ghetto. In the _only _house in the ghetto. My dad binge drinks daily and is still perpetually on the cusp of liver failure: never healthy enough to function like a normal member of society, never ill enough to kick the bucket. Seriously, with all of us being walking, talking clichés, all signs point to me being a horrible gambler and losing everything I own in Las Vegas by age 40.

Luckily, I am a fantastic gambler, so I probably won't lose the mortgage to my house like my dad did. Unluckily, all the bad luck I should have suffered with gambling seems to have screwed with my Law of Probabilities. How else do I explain the whole resurrection thing? Why else would all the guys in the closet pick this week, _this one week__**, **_to come out?

And why to me? Fuck it all – they can go around fucking pigs for I care (Cartman was probably created that way). But why are they coming out to me? Worse, why do they want answers?

But then again I'm Kenny fucking McCormick, white trash and poor boy, and the universe would probably implode if I got anything good except for my luck in gambling.

Yup. So I'm definitely going to blame my Law of Probabilities as the cause for Stan Marsh sitting on the floor of my bedroom. Shit, does he look uncomfortable. Well, I guess that's what happens when you come to the house you've been avoiding for seventeen years because you hate being reminded that your friend was as poor as shit.

Stan clears his throat and clasps his hands in his lap, opens his mouth and closes it again. I just watch him as he struggles through an internal war, a little freaked out at how he's acting because Stan has never been this confused before. He's always the confident, easygoing leader who doesn't stand out too much on a regular basis. Even when his parents got divorced and remarried again, he wasn't this antsy. Depressed, yeah. But Stan's just as bad as Kyle about the whole premenstrual attitude thing, so I'm used to his mood swings.

This? Whole different ball game that I don't know how to handle.

"Dude, do you want a joint or something?" Might as well be hospitable or some shit like that while he's going through an existential crisis.

"No thanks, man. I just need to talk to you really quick."

"Alright, go ahead. You're here and everything."

"Okay, so. Uh. What – " he mumbles something quick and fast under his breath, so low that I can barely catch the first word.

"Yeah. Didn't understand a thing you said there."

"Whatdoyoudowhenyouhavedrunks exwithyourbestfriend." Stan's breath collapses in a whoosh, as if the words had physically taken all the air out of him with it.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of what he's just asked. All that buildup for a stupid question like this? "Uh, let it go? It's not that big of a deal."

"Sure." Stan snorts. "It's probably not a big deal to you, but it is to me."

"Okay…well, try and forget about it?"

"I can't!"

"Dude, I can't help you with this if you're going to get dramatic about it – "

"Well, I don't think you could handle it calmly either when all you can think about is how your best friend looks underneath you during sex with your girlfriend!"

"Oh." I'm honestly not sure what Stan wants me to say at this point, although I can pretty much guess what he came here for.

No, that's a lie. I know exactly what he wants me to say. Stan's looking up at me as if he's waiting for me to burst out with some astounding revelation or sob story of how I became the openly bi guy in town. He's hopeful that I'll have the answers, that I'm about to tell him that he's just being a little "bi-curious" and it's a phase that'll blow over and that he'll go back to being straight as a ruler in no time flat. He wants me to tell him he's as normal as he was before. That he's not hot for his best friend.

I don't tell him any of these things because, hell, they're not fucking true. He and Kyle have been attached to the hip for for-fucking-ever, and this is just the next step forward. It's a _logical_ step forward, considering that Stan winds up at Kyle's house after most of his dates with Wendy and he's cancelled on her a million and one times for Kyle. I can count the times he's cancelled on Kyle for Wendy with one finger.

Now that I think about it, maybe that's why Wendy's so bitter towards the four of us.

I sigh, run my fingers through my hair, and take another deep inhale of the smoke that's curling from my joint before patting the seat beside me on the bed.

"Dude, do you want my real opinion on that?"

Stan nods, a little apprehensive now because I've unlaced my hood, just enough so that my mouth is free.

"Well, I think you've had this fucking coming."

"What?" That's obviously not what he's expecting, because he leans away from me as if I've just announced his mom's a chicken or something. "I had this _coming_?"

"Yeah. You obviously felt something with Kyle that you've never had with anyone else, right? And I'm not just talking about the sex here, although that must have been pretty damn awesome. Why else wouldn't you have sex with Wendy more and go over to Kyle's less?"

"How did you – " Stan looks absolutely horrified at what I've just said. I kinda understand where he's coming from – I'd be completely offended too if someone told me I wasn't boning my girl enough. But I don't want to listen to him defend his masculinity right now, so I just wave my hand around to shut him up.

"Trust me, I know what an undersexed girl looks like." Stan looks like he wants to protest this but I wave my hand again before he can open his mouth. I have something to say and goddammit I will say it because Stan and Kyle together is the most obvious thing in the world and they are just so much better as a package deal.

"Anyways, you love Kyle 'cause he's Kyle. And you love him more than just a crush or best friend, right? It's totally obvious, dude. You love him because he gets you like nobody else does. He takes it when you act like a pussy because sometimes he acts like a bitch and you take that. When he moved in fourth grade you went and wrote a fucking song for him. When you were about to get blown to nuclear bits he broke into the goddamn Pentagon for you. You think I'd do that for Cartman? Hell no, dude. You guys got something special and you know it."

"And do you know how we talk about you guys when you aren't around? StanandKyle. Like you guys are a fucking package deal and we can't separate you or the whole thing falls apart. Face it, dude – this whole sex thing? It was only a matter of time. Besides, it's kinda unfair to ask any girl to compete with something like what you guys have. Even Wendy."

Stan just stares at me for a good couple minutes before giving me a weak smile. "Dude, I don't think I've ever heard you say more than three sentences together until today."

"Yeah, well, duty calls and all that."

"And we're you're duty?"

I snort. "Of course, dumbass. How else are you guys gonna get it on if I don't push both of you onto a bed and take your clothes off?"

Stan pinks, and I can tell he's thinking about it. Vividly.

I snort, just a bit, and laugh harder when the blush becomes less of a delicate pink and more of a deep scarlet.

"Kenny! Could you stop laughing while I'm going through my sexual identity crises?"

I grin at him, putting a comforting hand on his back until he shoves it off. "Aw, don't be offended dude. It seems like everyone in this fucking town needs someone to push them forward."

"What do you mean, everyone?"

"As in everyone? I mean, first Clyde and Token, then Craig and Tweek, and now you and Kyle. I should start charging for this matchmaking shit."

"Oh, shut up dude. You aren't as good as you think you are."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Oh really?"

He snorts, grabbing my joint from my hand and taking a big drag from it. Damn, I really should get better reflexes. "Yeah, dude. You still haven't told me what I should do."

"Well, now that we've settled that you're Kyle-sexual – "

Stan coughs and pounds at his chest. I ignore him.

" – we really should get Kyle on the same page. Is he still blissfully unaware of how gay you guys are for each other or is he past that point already?"

"Shit, I don't know. But," Stan broke off and gave me a wicked smile. "But I think he liked the sex."

I whoop, slapping Stan on the back. Shit, _this_ is why I like the guy. "You serious?"

"Yeah, he was, like, moaning and everything."

"Did you get him to cum?"

The pink comes back, but Stan keeps on grinning. "Hell yeah, dude. I'm not bad at sex."

"Hell, never said you were."

"Yeah, yeah." He flicks some ashes from the joint in my direction. "Hey dude, can I stay here tonight?"

I think about the parents, about how they scream and bitch and fight all the fucking time and how tonight would not be an exception. I think back to all we have in our fridge (some frozen waffles, cereal if we're lucky and Kevin hasn't scarfed it down already) and what the house must look like to Stan. Hell, his dog lives better than we do.

So I just ask, "Why?"

Stan scratches his head a little sheepishly, but I'm not fooled at all. His eyes are murky and his forehead is bunched into deep worry lines, like it always gets when he's particularly upset. You can't be friends since before preschool without knowing little things like that.

"Well," he chuckles sadly, a combination I thought I'd never hear. "Well, you're not really the first person I came to for advice."

"Who'd you ask?"

"My dad." He won't look at me, just stares straight down at his mittens as if he's determined to memorize each seam and thread.

I blink. "Uh, how'd he take it?"

Stan sighs and takes off his cap with one hand, balling the cloth so tight his knuckles turn white. "How do you think?"

"Bad?"

"Yeah. Real bad. So, I can't really go back home tonight."

When Stan finally did turn around, his smile didn't seem to quite fit on his face. It's broken, like he'd forgotten how to smile and had to paste on the closest thing he could find. It's a painful, quiet thing and I can't look at it for long, have to wince and stand to give myself an excuse to avert my eyes.

"Hey man, no worries. You can stay here for as long as you need." I hear myself saying, and he nods at me.

"Thanks, dude."

"No problem." I place my hand on his shoulder and let it rest for a moment before turning to walk out the door. "Hey, I'm going to go out. You coming with?"

I can hear Stan snorting from behind and the bed creaking as he stands to follow. "If I stay here by myself I'm going to get molested by your sister again."

"It's cool, just tell her you play for the other side."

"Whatever. You know she won't care."

"True. But at least you have a legit reason to brush her off now."

Stan choke-laughs at this, and I wish fervently that I'll never have to hear it again. "Thank God for small miracles, I guess."

"Yeah, thank God." I mumble.

We're walking down the street, Stan walking closer than he has since we were ten and he was going through shit from his parents, when he suddenly nudges me in the side.

"Kenny?"

"Yeah?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, and there's loaded silence threaded with each step we take. It bears down on our shoulders, our heads, and both of our backs bow with the weight as we shuffle forward.

I glance into a shop window as we walk past and almost laugh at how cliché we look. Two gloomy teenagers, lounging around town, heads down and scowls on full force – it's not my proudest moment.

We've been walking for a while when Stan finally raises his head, just a little. "Kenny, my dad…he didn't mean anything. By what he said."

Stan isn't talking to me, not really, so I don't respond. Just listen.

"Really. He's not a bad guy, just a little shocked by what I said. I mean, I guess I could have worded it a little differently so it was partly my fault."

"But he didn't have to act like that." It wasn't an accusation. There was no heat in my voice. It was fact, and Stan knew it.

"No. No, that bastard, he really, really didn't have to. Goddammit, I'm probably not even gay."

"Just a little bit? For Kyle?"

"Shut _up_ Kenny. Why can't you be a little more considerate? You think going through this is easy?"

I throw back my head and laugh. Stan flinches beside me.

"God, sorry man. I didn't mean it like that."

_Yes you did_. But whatever. It's not like he can actually see the bruises. I don't blame him for forgetting.

Stan goes on like nothing's happened. "So yeah. I just asked Dad for a little advice, you know? And he just _looked _at me…and then," Stan's voice cracks, "he just. Oh my God, he just said, 'I thought so since you were nine. I was hoping I was wrong.' Dude, my own Dad thinks I'm gay. And then he _turned away._ Like, as if I was some piece of shit or something that didn't belong there. I mean, my Dad can be a bastard sometimes – a lot of times – but he's never turned away before. He's always been the nosy parent, you know? The one who really doesn't leave you alone."

"Kenny, I didn't know what to do. So I left."

I don't say anything because Stan has started shaking and as bad as I feel for him, this is still massively awkward for me. Even if I'm bi, I'm still a guy, goddammit. I don't _do_ crying.

So I steer him towards a nearby curb (since South Park is basically deserted of anything normal, like benches) and press him down onto it. He's still shaking and hiccupping and basically making a scene, but he does what I tell him to with a minimum of fuss, to my great relief.

It's one thing to be sitting next to a guy who's crying and something else entirely for him to be clutching onto your sleeve while stumbling around with snot dripping from his nose. One scene is pitiful, and the other one is just a little too undignified for my tastes.

There's another long silence filled with sniffles and the occasional sob. It would be awkward, but I've known Stan for too long and too well to be deterred by his sensitivity.

And I've been known to give blowjobs for very low prices. So awkward isn't really a new thing for me.

We sit until my butt's cold and Stan's stopped making pathetic sniffling sounds and we can both see the stars (they're beautiful tonight). We just sit and don't talk, because there isn't really anything to say.

It's probably well into midnight when I stand and hold out a hand towards the motionless figure besides me.

"Hey, dude, let's go home."

Stan takes it.

* * *

The next morning is a Monday, and Stan gets me up at the crack dawn. Well, eight o'clock, which is basically the crack of dawn for someone who gets up at twelve on a regular basis.

"_Dude_. Shut up and go to sleep."

"Kenny, it's _eight_. Get up, we have to go to school."

I groan and hit him on the head. Sensitive bitch has _got_ to have a snooze button somewhere. "I haven't gone to school at eight since I was fifteen."

"Yeah, and that's why you're flunking out. Come on, let's go."

"No. Fuck off."

"Jesus Christ, why are you being so difficult?"

"_I'm_ being difficult? I let you sleep at my house, cry on my shoulder 'till two in the morning, and _I'm_ being difficult?"

I can hear Stan sigh in frustration from far away, but I'm already drifting back into pleasant dreams of heaven and all the boobies it offers, so I really can't care less.

Until I'm flipped off of something soft and land on something really, really fucking hard.

"Goddamn it, Stan!"

"Get. Up. Kenny. I will not be late because you and your late ass."

"This ass is staying _here_."

"No, that ass is leaving. And if it doesn't leave by itself in three seconds, my ass will be taking that ass outside. In the nude."

"_Do it_."

In retrospect, it was a really dumb idea to dare a football player to lift a scrawny ass like me outside, even if I do have two inches on him. Because, heaven help me, Stan is fit as hell and cares about school enough to actually _do_ it. He's about to dump said ass on snow, bare bottom down, when I twist in sheer desperation to punch him in the face.

"Okay, _okay_. Fuck, Marsh, you need to stop acting so anal. I swear, you get more and more like Kyle every day."

He stiffens, but I'm still pissed at him for tearing me away from my glorious dreams of boobies, so I can't spare _too_ much sympathy.

I do let him grab the last waffle as we leave, though. 'Cause I'm just that nice of a guy.

Stan and I have been tight for the past couple of days, and since I definitely haven't been imagining the strange looks Kyle has been giving us, a confrontation was inevitable.

I was expecting it. I just didn't think it would happen like this; with me stuck behind a door and Kyle on the direct opposite of it. _Moaning_.

And talking, I suppose. But the moaning was a tad bit distracting.

The whole thing was just a giant coincidence. Really. It had started off as one of those godforsaken awful mornings where I'm woken with a bucket of water to the head, courtesy of Stan. And it's really not as funny as it sounds.

So I'm walking, right? Just minding my own business after ditching Stan in the parking lot (because no matter how many times it's happened, having water dumped on your head is not a pleasant way to start the morning and there should be a basic human right to ditch people who think it _is_)when I hear noises from a nearby door. Sexual noises.

There are moans, grunts, little urgent whispers – the whole shebang. To make things even better, it's coming from the janitor's closet. Considering countless occasions I've gotten my rocks off in there – ha! I _own_ the janitor's closet.

Therefore, I own all the sex that goes on in there, too. That's my excuse for listening in on what happened next. I creep forward, baby steps, until I'm pressed up against the dingy metal surface.

"_Mmm…_I just…don't know. I thought – _oh, yes, there_ – he liked me. Just…_ha_…a little bit?"

Kyle? The fuck is he doing in there? Shit, if Stan finds out about this –

"Gee, I don't know Kyle. He's kinda giving off weird signals."

_Butters?_

"I…_know_…"

"B-but I still say he likes you. I know c-cause Big Gay Al and Mr. Slave love each other, and th-they look at each other like Stan looks at you."

"You…think? _Oh."_

"Gee, is that okay, Kyle?"

"_Yess…_it's great…oh, _God_, I'm going to – "

"Mmph."

I have to jam my fist into my mouth to keep from cumming right then and there. I could see why Stan was head over heels for Kyle – his voice mid-sex was _amazing_. Throaty and desperate and electrifying as Kyle shouts Stan's name, teasing, pulling forward, _sucking_ –

Jesus, God, and fucking Christ, what I would give to be on the other side of this stupid door _right this second_. But Kyle has started talking again and I lean in to listen, just in case he's still talking in that gorgeous hidden voice of his.

"Butters, what you were saying before…"

"Oh yeah! Well, he watches you when he's walking around with Kenny sometimes. I – I mean, it's not like I _watch_ them or anything, but – oh, jeez – forget I said anything!"

"Wait, wait, hold on a minute. He watches me?"

"Aw, of course he does Kyle! He loves ya!"

"You really think so?"

"Yeah! You guys are real sweet, boy-howdy. I'd love to have that with someone, someday."

"Uh, thanks Butters. That's…cool of you to say. Well, I think I should go. It's almost time for first period."

"Yeah, okay. But we should do this again soon!"

"…Weren't you _just_ saying Stan likes me? And that we'd be, uh, good together?"

"Yeah!"

"And you still want to hook up?"

"Well, it was fun, right?"

"And you don't see anything wrong with that?"

"I don't know why you're asking, but you sure are making me nervous Kyle."

"Ah, whatever. I seriously gotta go now, so I'll be seeing you at lunch, okay?"

"Yeah, okay! See you later!"

I launch myself away from the door and down the hall, managing to prop myself nonchalantly onto a nearby locker just as Kyle's green ushanka pokes out from the doorway, his face a little pink and hair disheveled but otherwise looking exactly the same as he always does. It makes me laugh. If I can't tell – _me_, Mr. Sex and Worshipper of All that is Sexual – then he's doing a pretty damn good job of hiding it. And that means he's had a lot of practice. With Butters. Come on, it's pretty hilarious.

Except it's suddenly not, because Kyle's head whips around at my laughter and he sees me immediately, eyes narrowing as he starts to walk over. Scratch that – _stomping _over with all the intensity of a wolf-bear-hawk hybrid narrowing in on its prey. It's more than a little disconcerting, especially since Kyle is uncannily similar to Ms. Broflovski when he gets angry. Seriously, it's like a mini, male Sheila is hunting me down.

Oh God, I'm actually sort of frightened. Except I'll never admit that to anyone, God or Satan rest my soul.

"Hey, Kenny."

"Hey."

"You're here early." Suspicion's written all over his face, the smartass.

"Uh, yeah. Stan woke me up by pouring water over my head."

Kyle eyes my dripping wet bangs and pats me on the shoulder in a sympathetic fashion – he knows just how drastic Stan can get. "Sorry, Ken. But you know it's better for you in the long run, right?"

I shrug and leave him to his preaching, intent on treating this like it never happened when Butters comes out of the janitor's closet at the exact moment that I'm passing by.

"O-oh, heya Kenny!"

"Uh. Hi, Butters."

I really, _really_ don't need this right now. Not when the only guy I might actually hate is standing in front of me, smelling of sex and glancing around with the most obvious I-just-got-fucked expression in the world. Not when he's not half as good as hiding it as Kyle, and especially not when Kyle is still watching us from a couple feet away, absolute horror inscribed on every inch of his face as he looks at Butters's dazed expression.

God_dammit_. I might have gotten away without Kyle finding out I knew and skipped the ensuing drama that was sure to happen. I could have forgotten about the complete and utter weirdness of this whole situation, saved it up until I ran out of things to jack off to and put it to good use.

That's probably what would have happened if Butters hadn't had the worst timing in the whole goddamn universe. And now I was condemned to an hour, possibly an hour and a half, of the worst Kyle bitching I had ever been subject to. There would be _words_. And quite possibly a whole lot of accusations and Broflovski advice mixed in with those words, all served on the highest volume known to man.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

Butters is still babbling away about something I really don't give a shit about right now, but when I look down to make up a vague excuse and hurry away, I have to give him a double take. He's literally as red as a tomato, cheek's hot and knuckles rubbing against each other like they always do when he's nervous.

_I – I mean, it's not like I watch them or anything, but – oh, jeez – forget I said anything!_

Fuck. Did Butters have a crush? On me?

Well, only one way to confirm. I lean in a little closer, making sure I'm smiling in the way that always ends up getting me sex. Lots and lots of it. I have no idea what he's talking about, but there's one line that usually works on everything.

"So you like that, huh?"

Butters face reddens even more – so much I think he might actually need medical attention –before he squeaks something unintelligible. It's something along the lines of "Gee" and "oh, hamburgers!", which is all the confirmation I need.

It's just too bad for him that Butters is the very last person I would ever bone. So I lean backwards, give him a parting wink, and make off to leave –

"Wait! Kenny, stop! I have to talk to you!"

When I realize Kyle's still here and I'm still royally screwed. Shit.

"Uh, Butters."

"Yeah Ken?"

His eyes are shining with so much naïve hope it fucking hurts to look at him. But even _that_ – the hope and the awkward flirts and the endless babbling – is better than the fuming Sheila-monster that's waiting for me.

"Let's ditch."

"What?" Butters just looks at me in horror. "I-If I skip school I'm gonna get grounded!"

"No, you're not. We'll come back in time for lunch and later I'll disconnect your phone wires or something so the school can't call your parents, okay? Just _come on_."

I tug him away from where Kyle's still glaring at me, undoubtedly understanding exactly what I'm doing and not appreciating it. We've almost made it to the end of the hall when I hear Kyle shout something unintelligible from the other side.

"Did you catch that?" I look to Butters, and he nods.

"Yeah! He said, 'this isn't over, Kenny McCormick!'. Gee, I wonder what he meant?"

"Who knows?" I mutter back, stopping for a bit to glance over my shoulder. I can't see Kyle anywhere, which probably means he's gone to first period, and since Kyle has a super serious relationship with school he's not going to ditch it to look for me.

I'm safe, for now. One more loose end to ditch and I'm out of here, faster than anything. I've been going to school entirely too much lately, a side effect from becoming temporary best friends with Stan. It's high time I've ditched. My lazy white trash nerves are itching for it.

I look at Butters and smile. "You know what Butters? Maybe it's not good to ditch."

Butters nods, an obviously relieved smile springing into being and smoothing all the worry lines from his face. "Yeah! I mean, it's not good to d-ditch, no sir!"

I cut him off before he can begin whatever babble he has in mind. I really, really want to get to Raisins and just drink this entire day down. "Yeah, so let's just go to class. Uh, tell your teacher you got sick on the way here or something."

"Naw, I couldn't! That'd be lying, and lying's no good, mister!" Butters looks appalled again, and I have to fight back the urge to just up and run. I probably would too, if I didn't know Butters would follow me.

"Okay, tell him the truth. Tell him you met Kenny McCormick and was trying to make him go back to class."

"Okay! I'll do that, then."

"Right. See you later, Butters."

I'm ready to hightail out of there, out of this cesspool of emotions and relationships and angst, when someone tugs on my hand.

"What is it, Butters?" The words come out as more of a garbled sigh, but Butters is apparently incapable of recognizing annoyance and he isn't fazed at all by it.

"Well, we'll see each other at lunch, right Kenny? Golly, we haven't talked in a while!"

"Uh, yeah." _No way in hell_. "I'll see you around, Butters."

I can _feel_ Butters watching me go, his beam as sharp as Kyle's laser eyes in intensity. But finally, finally, I'm out the door and gone. Gone, gone, gone. Away from sharp-eyed people and their boyfriends, away from whiny, douchebag asses and straight into the lap of a gorgeous bottle of whiskey.


	5. Chapter 5: Bunny and Style

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**A/N: Happy holidays guys! It's been a while, really, but stupid school kept on getting in my way and I couldn't finish this on time...I'm sorry! This chapter is basically just filler, but I hope you guys enjoy!**

**A/N2: I didn't edit this. At all. So if you find some mistakes, please tell me! Thanks!**

**WARNING: Has smut between unexpected people. Contains storyline for the following pairings: Bunny, Dip, and Style.**

I am a very impulsive guy.

I know this, I do. I'm impulsive as all hell and after a bottle (or maybe ten) I can literally rip the son of Satan's clothes off in the middle of a public bathroom. Which is why I'm doing just that - and in the _girl's _bathroom, no less.

And yes, when I say middle, I do mean smack in front of the door. Somehow Damien convinced me that I was, in fact, an exhibitionist deep down inside of my soul and this was the first step to freeing my repressed inner self, or something. It had made a lot more sense at the bar, when he was buying me drinks.

Not so much now, when he's ripping my clothes off and at any moment the hot bartender chick I've been eyeing for a week will walk in and that would be the end of the _fantastic _sex I was looking forward to. I'd been working on her ever since I saw that magnificent cleavage. Mmm. And now all my efforts would be gone - wasted entirely - because Damien had a fast mouth and a loose wallet.

Goddammit. I need to stop letting people bribe me with illegal substances. It never works out for me.

Damien bites my lower lip, sharp and quick, hand sneaking into my hair and tugging my head back. It's uncomfortable. It's sudden. It would be degrading, if I had any dignity left to lose.

"Focus on _me_," he says, almost snarls it, before letting his head drop to my neck to graze over the bare skin, teeth sharp but barely touching. His hand drops from my head to the front of my pants, agile fingers on the seam of my underwear. And oh. Oh, oh, _oh_ -

Sex. Now.

Want flashes from somewhere deep in my stomach as I arch into Damien's touch, his breath like a physical touch on my shoulder. The warmth of it flares across my collarbone and I let my finger trace its path, the searing hot of brimstone turning the skin there red and blotchy.

Turning me _on._

I've had sex with Damien often enough to become comfortable, if he was anything close to human. But he's not. He's vicious and powerful and has a list of fetishes a mile long; I can't get bored. It's not possible. He's just so very (very very very) good at this, with the added bonus of having special powers - which went a _long_ way in bed. Just saying.

This is way better than the chick with the bouncy tits outside. As Damien moves his mouth downwards, down, down, his tongue slipping down the line of my chest to my belly button, I let a moan slip past my clenched teeth.

Damien almost purrs, like a satisfied cat. It's almost adorable, really, if you could forget the fact that he's demon spawn and all. I pull him up and attack his mouth with my tongue, pressing and pushing and he lets me taste him like it's nothing. He's the flavor of bitter, and oh, he's so very _hot_. It's almost like I'm in hell again, but in the sort of hell that burns you to the core like only a devil could -

And suddenly, the door opens.

Damien looks up, and says in the most casual tone possible: "Oh, hey Butters."

Shit. Of all the people to see me like this. I turn my head slightly, so I have a better view of the intruder, and open my mouth to explain why I'm halfway naked in a girl's bathroom with a guy who was expelled from school for burning the science wing down.

I never get the words out. Instead, my jaw goes slack.

"Fe-fellas!" Butters's voice is high and squeaky - which is all too fitting, considering how Butters is dressed. High heels, low-cut dress, the whole shebang. He even has a Gucci purse swinging from his left arm and make-up on, which actually makes his face look a lot more feminine than it did during school - Jesus, was that really only three hours ago?

I slowly draw back from Damien, eyes on Butters's face. He's wearing the expression of a someone who's waiting for the reality cameras to pop up and say 'Surprise!'. Whether he's surprised because of Damien and me or being found out, I can't tell.

I can't meet his eyes, for some reason. It's weird - I haven't done anything wrong, haven't promised him anything, haven't broken anything except maybe the little lie about coming back for lunch. But _that_ was hardly worth feeling guilty about. I did it all the time, and knowing Butters he would probably shrug it off and smile.

So why? Why couldn't I look at him properly?

I let my hand drop from its hold on Damien's neck, walking over to his shirt and tossing it to him before grabbing mine.

"Come back here." The words are command, all flame with none of the kitten I'd seen earlier. "I'm not finished with you."

Bad. This is probably one of the most awkward situations I've ever been in, and the tension is near burning levels. Literally. Damien the Princely Demon Asshole tends to manipulate weather according to his moods, and right now he is pissed as _fuck_. Nobody likes it when a person interrupts a good time. I can sympathize with that, for sure. And normally I wouldn't mind if someone got mad.

It's just. Prince is just so _showy_ about it. People get hurt.

Pip - Damien's only friend, his _friend_ for Chrissakes - and his burning body comes to my mind in a flash, and suddenly there's a lot more at stake than a wasted opportunity for sex. All I want is to get Butters _out_.

I nudge the bump in Damien's pants with my knee to distract him; give him a wicked grin. "Later. We've got company, Prince."

Damien just looks, with dark, dark eyes. Lets his gaze travel from shirtless me, to Butters, who is shirtless too, but in a whole different way. What he sees - and he does see something, I can tell from the way his eyes flicker - obviously satisfies him, because he nods and steps away.

"Tonight. You know where to come to, Kenny."

"Yeah, Prince."

He sweeps by Butters on the way out, deliberately gathering himself up so he didn't touch any part of Butters or his...woman's outfit. Like Butters is somehow filthy.

It isn't rage that washes over me. It's sadness. I don't understand it, but then again, when do I understand anything about Butters? The way I feel about him, this stupid disgust and pity that's been growing in my chest since the day I saw him - what the hell. It just doesn't make any sense. Butters has always been nothing but sweet to me.

I sigh and look through my pockets for a cigarette, avoiding Butters eye for as long as I can manage. Another weird thing. I never avoid people's eyes - it's not like I'm ever _ashamed _of what they catch me doing. But...

I shake that line of thought away, _fast_. This was going somewhere I didn't really want to follow, because it meant thinking about _emotions_ and _confronting your problems_.

I don't do that kind of thing. I drown in some vodka and girls and smoke until whatever's bothering me goes away, so that's exactly what I'm going to do now.

When I finally find a smoke, I nod towards Butters before taking a good, long drag.

"So, what's the story?"

* * *

Apparently the story is that there is no story. Dressing up like a girl - a sexy girl at that - is Butters's hobby. That's all. The end.

"After all," Butters isn't meeting my eyes either, but he's talking in that same cheerful voice. It's a little disturbing, actually. "You guys were the ones who started it."

Ah. The whole Marjorine business. I nod along as Butters tells me all about how he got to this point - literally _all_ about, since he's going over every single fucking detail like he's narrating a book, or something.

I cut him off in the middle of him going over a conversation he had with Cartman, word-for-word. "Wait. What?"

"And th-then Cartman said, 'it's obviousleh that Irish asshole is way into girls, Butt-ocks.' A-and he laughed."

"Okay...when was this?"

"Uh, maybe a couple years ago?"

I think back. Cartman went through phases of nicknames with Butters (you could hardly blame the guy - Butters is a weird name to have) but the last time I heard him call Butters 'Butt-ocks' was back in the first year of middle school.

Then I yelped.

"Christ, Butters, you've been dressing up like a girl all this time because of something _Cartman _said back in middle school?"

"N-no, sir." Butters looks slightly nervous now, which is strange. Butters never gets nervous unless he thinks his parents are going to ground him. "I-I've been dressing up 'cause Cartman told me..."

And he says the rest tight and low, almost under his breath.

"Told you what, Butters?"

"T-told me th-that _you_ liked g-girls..."

That's all I need to hear. Butters's feelings be damned, I spring up off the sink where I'm leaning and run for it. Out the door, through Raisins where a whole lot of catcalls and whistles start up, and onto the sidewalk.

I never stop. I can't breathe. It's just the tightness in my chest (it's tight because I'm _running_, not because of anything else, no way) and me.

We're running.

It's only when I get back home into the safety of my dead yard and Karen throws her pink unicorn shirt at my head that I realize I've just run through town with my shirt off and belt open.

Oh, well. I've done worse.

* * *

I spend the rest of the day raiding Stuart's beer and chugging it down like water. Some of it tastes off, but I'm way past the point of giving a shit.

I'm tired, and I've just found out the only guy I might hate - and for no reason at all, which just pisses me off even more - has a crush on me for years. A major one.

How had I not seen this before?

I tip the last of the rum into my mouth and lie back, liquid fire running down my throat and the buzzing in my head gone way past pleasant. It's far into wow-where-the-fuck-am-I territory now.

But Butters is _still on my mind._

Fuck. Through some sheer force of will I manage to drag a jug of vodka to where my lips should be and gulp it down, ignoring the way the world is going steadily hazy and the only thing I can feel is the way the vodka burns in my throat. And even that is distant.

It would be worrying, if I had anything to worry about. But I don't, so I just suck in large gulps of vodka as the seams of the world fall apart and whirl together until it's just dark.

_Fucking alcohol poisoning_, is my last thought. Then the world is gone and there's nothing supporting me and I'm falling, falling into the black.

* * *

I wake up to a frowning Damien.

"Get up, Kenny."

"Fuck, give me a sec. I just woke up from dying, Prince."

"Hurry up. You're breathing all over the carpet." He sniffs in disdain and for a minute I'm sure he's going to tell me it's Persian or something. He's really channeling the prissy, stuck-up prep attitude today.

"Damn. You were a lot nicer when you were trying to pick me up." I groan and get up anyway; it's not like I haven't been through the whole dying routine before.

He sniffs again, not even deigning to reply. Oh, right. This was his home territory now, and he had every right as the _Prince _to be a snobby bastard.

But he didn't _have_ to be one, that asshole.

I stretch the kinks out of my back, grimacing slightly as my joints popped and slid into place. "Hey Prince, you couldn't send a message to the big guy to make dying a little less painful?"

"Stop whining." He settled back in his armchair that looked scarily like the one in Token's house with a cup of _something_ in his hand, looking completely comfortable in a way he never did up on the surface. "It's not like you're the only one dying, you know."

"Yeah, but I'm the only one who does it four times every damn month." I'm not whining. I'm _not_.

"That's what you think." Is what Damien mutters under his breath, so low and soft I'm not sure I was supposed to hear it.

I whip my head around in his direction, aches and pains forgotten. "What?"

Damien just meets my gaze stonily, obviously with no intention of sharing anything else. But _hell _if I'm going to let this go without a fight.

"Damien." He narrows his eyes a little at my use of his name. "What are you talking about?"

"You're the only one talking." He overturns his cup of mysterious liquid onto the fire next to his armchair, and it splutters a bit before roaring back up, reaching and reaching for Damien's hand. He watches them a little while, almost amused, until the first tendrils start licking at his fingers.

Then he pushes down on the flames until his hand is smothering them completely, palm flat in the ashes.

"Jesus, Prince. Take it easy." I approach him slowly, hands up in surrender. The guy had major anger issues; if I'm not careful, the next thing he squashes would be my face.

And since it was hell, it wasn't like I could die _again._I'd be stuck without a proper nose until Jesus finally got around to raising me up for the millionth time - or could I even survive in hell without a brain?

It wasn't something that I wanted to find out.

So I walk over with the shit-eating grin I knew he liked pasted over my mouth (it meant trouble, sex, blasphemy - everything a demon _would_ like) just to stop right behind him.

"Calm down. Or maybe," my breath coasts over the shell of his ear, his neck, and he shudders from the promise of it all, "you don't want to?"

I let my lips touch his shoulder, just enough so he can feel it when I grin. "There are better ways to let out _anger_, Prince."

He purrs, and the danger is over as fast as it began. Then he pounces like the cat he can be and twists his body around so it's flush against mine, tongue pushing against my teeth, asking for entrance.

I let him in, and later when our clothes are off and there's a bed under our hungry touches, I look at his face and think that it's surely my guilt being reflected in his eyes.

* * *

I wake up to an empty bed. My bed, with it's sagging, threadbare mattress and puke stains around the edges of the sheets.

It looks exactly like how I feel right now. Crappy.

"He couldn't just tell Satan that waking up from dying sucks major donkey balls?" I grumble before stepping out of the mass of dirty comforter. It's not really why I feel like crawling into a hole and dying there, but it's a damn good excuse and I'm sticking to it.

I completely forget I'm room-sharing with Stan until I run smack into him on the way to the bathroom. It's not exactly the best meeting; I'm scratching my ass and he's yawning morning breath everywhere, but Stan brightens anyway when he sees me.

"Wow douchebag, I thought you'd died!"

"Mmhm." I can't muster up more than that before nudging Stan out of the doorway of the bathroom.

Straight into a cloud of stink.

"Aw, dude! It smells like shit!" I back out of the room with one hand pinching my nose, away from the offending smell. Stan just looks immensely proud of himself.

"Hey, first come, first served right?"

I almost punch him. It's a really, really close thing, and Stan should thank his lucky stars that I'm used to feeling like crap or he'd be on the floor right now.

Instead, I give him a dirty look and shove my way back into the bathroom, determined to take a scalding hot shower and scrape all the death and demon away from my body. Maybe if I scrub hard enough, the guilt would fall away too.

Even if I have to do it in a bathroom that smells like Cartman after some Chipotle.

When I get out ten minutes later (the boiler can't handle anymore than ten, and that's on good days), I'm dripping wet and red all over from the crazy heat, but not feeling much better than when I went in. Stan shoves a cup of steaming something into my hands - probably hot water or beer - and goes back to the counter where he's been leaning.

I join him, taking a deep drag of whatever Stan's made - which is coffee, apparently. I gaze down into the cup in astonishment.

Blessed, blessed child. I can't resist giving him a quick peck on the cheek and laughing as he backs away in disgust.

"Gross, dude!"

I just smirk at him while he rubs at his cheek, looking around for a tissue or something, until he freezes mid-wipe and gasps. Theatrically.

"Dude! School!"

* * *

This time I do punch him.

Kyle's giggling like a maniac. He's been giggling for the past half hour, from the moment he saw the bloody tissue sticking out of Stan's nose to my own pissed off face, and hasn't stopped since.

There's a glint of triumphant victory in the way he's chuckling, laughter a little too sharp and mocking to be just plain amusement. Kyle might be neurotic bitch at times, but he's never been cruel. But this...

It sounds a little too much like Cartman for my comfort. But why the hell would Kyle - the only guy with a halfway decent set of morals in this goddamn town - be laughing like him?

I sneak a glance at Stan, who's completely oblivious to the weird mood Kyle's in. He's too busy blushing beet-red and looking around for a nearby trashcan to dump the bloody tissue in to notice anything, not even his best friend.

Not so with Kyle. His eyes flick between me and Stan, eyeing Stan's neck, my lips, the way Stan's walking, the way _I'm_ walking -

And then it all clicks.

Things I didn't notice, the small hints Kyle's been giving off flood my mind: the way Kyle's been pushing me to the side, just a little, crowding me out of the spot next to Stan; his little sideways stares; his too-vicious laugh and weird jokes about how I'm a man-stealer because of what happened with Tweek at Token's house -

But it was never about them, was it?

It's so obvious now. Kyle Broflovski is jealous. Of me. Mr. I-live-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks-and-whore McCormick.

I can't help laughing at the twist of events. Kyle has always been the most sensitive about my poor, dysfunctional, alcoholic roots, probably because he was the one that was the farthest away from that. _His_ problem was that his mom fussed too much, not too little. Booze was something to stand up to as an activist, not drown in to forget how hungry you were or how miserable at having no future. And money? Oh, Kyle had tons of that. His dad was a lawyer - of course he was loaded.

We were two completely different people. And I don't think Kyle's ever once forgotten that. So to have Kyle Broflovski, privileged bitch, be jealous of _me_ - ha! That was a laugh.

He stops laughing the minute I start. "Oh, that's right. Kenny, we need to have our talk."

His tone is just two shades off from casual. If the absolute deadly glare he pins me with doesn't give his jealousy away, the way his voice shakes imperceptibly would.

Shit. The stare isn't something I can just run away from and hope it goes away; it's not something anyone can run away from. And I'm an expert runner.

* * *

"Kenny."

I give him a lazy grin, or what I hope is a lazy grin. Kyle could scare the shit out of anyone when he got really mad, and right now he was furious.

Or was he? Kyle wasn't exactly shy about his feelings, and the other times I'd really pissed him off (the great Douche vs. Turd debate came to mind) he'd screamed himself hoarse, took a short breather to think about all the things he hadn't covered yet, then screamed a little more. That was Kyle's way of dealing with anger.

But instead of rattling off all the things that I had done wrong in the past year, Kyle was just watching me. It was honestly getting a little creepy, since this wasn't what I was expecting at all.

The air between us was thick enough to suffocate in, and I have to say something, anything, or else I'm going to hell twice in one day. "Uh, if all you want to do is stare, you could have done it back there too."

Kyle narrows his eyes, just a little. "Yeah, sure. I could have announced my undying love for Stan with him right there, of course. Silly me."

I raise my eyebrow at him. "Seriously?"

"No, not seriously." Kyle scoffs at me like I should know better, and just like that the tension's gone. It's too natural, this routine, and it's a mark of the past fourteen years we've spent together that this friendship thing falls into place like I never listened to him having sex and he never suspected me of stealing his crush.

Childhood friendships. They're something else.

"Are you sure?" I raise both eyebrows this time and wiggle them. "You're so hung over Stan, I fucking swear man. I wouldn't be surprised if you actually did that."

"_Seriously_?" He looks so horrified at the thought that I can't help but laugh.

"No. Yeah. I don't fucking know, dude." I shrug and lean onto some lockers directly across from Kyle. "And to make it clear, I've never liked Stan."

Kyle turns a strange mixture of light pink and green and suddenly it seems like a really good idea to back away a couple more steps. "Uh, sorry about that, by the way." Then he seems to collect himself a little, enough to look up at me with a semblance of suspicion. "But never?"

I shake my head. "Never. He's a bit too jock for me, y'know?" I think back to that one weird attempt with Clyde in the football locker room, before he and Token got together. "Jocks are _no bueno_."

Kyle sniggers, but I can tell by the rigid way he's holding himself that he's not completely convinced.

This is going to take some major persuasion. With a mental sigh, I loosen the strings of my hood and peel the orange hood away from my mouth, mouth open and ready to let out a list of reasons exactly why I'd never look for a long-term relationship with my closest friend when Butters passes by.

He's tomato red again, but not because of Kyle this time. Because of me.

He doesn't say anything to us when he passes, and I'm not about to start conversation with the person I ran out on after he basically proclaimed his basically undying love for me. There's really nothing to say after a confession like that, except for an 'I love you' in return and I can't give that to Butters.

I can't give that to anyone.

So in the span of maybe four seconds while Butters walks past us, there's a complete and utter awkward silence in which I can't seem to take my eyes off of Butters's shoes. They're black, like shoe polish and cleanliness.

It takes forever for them to cross from one side of the hall to the other, like time's slowed down just to aggravate me. I wouldn't be surprised if it actually had - the universe has a tendency to fuck with me at the worst times.

Kyle has to snap his fingers in front of my face to get my attention, and even then it takes me awhile to tear my eyes away from Butters's retreating feet.

"You know what, let's just...go back. Stan's waiting for us." When I turn my gaze back to Kyle, he's staring at me with the strangest look on his face. It's not hostile, not anymore. If I had to call it anything, it would be pitying, but that's not it at all.

His face is..._soft_. It's obvious that Kyle's not jealous anymore. There's no way he could be, because a guy wouldn't look at competition like that. Trust me - when you've been the secret third person as many times as I have, you get a good grip on what people do when they're jealous.

"Why're you looking at me like that?" What the hell? Wasn't he mad at me for stealing his crush away just a couple seconds ago?

Kyle doesn't answer, giving me a halfhearted smile before walking back to Stan without another word. This time when we start towards class, he doesn't push me away.


	6. Chapter 6: Bunny, Style, Cartyle

**Disclaimer: South Park isn't mine, of course**.

**A/N: Hey guys! This chapter is here because of some very encouraging reviews :) Seriously. If it wasn't for certain reviewers (cough cough silverfox.611 this is a shoutout) I wouldn't have been inspired enough to write! So thanks, and please review! It really gives me motivation to add chapters!**

**A/N2: Like usual, this chapter was unedited. **

* * *

I go to class numbly, trailing behind Stan and Kyle while they have a normal conversation - well, a normal conversation for them. Which means Kyle's being sarcastic and cynical and Stan's just taking it. I just throw in one-word answers now and then, just to make sure no one would notice my odd mood.

No one does. That really shouldn't depress me anymore, considering I've spent the majority of my life playing the leftover third character. The one none of the others really care about.

Just for kicks, I look up at the ceiling and whisper, "You bastards!". The ceiling does not reply.

"What was that, Kenny?" Stan turns around, confusion written all over his face.

"Nothing."

Stan just shrugs and says something to Kyle about how some boys should really wear bras.

I really wonder about those two sometimes.

Instead of trying to join in the conversation I step back a little further, getting out of the line of fire as Kyle whirls on Stan.

"What are you trying to say?"

Stan's unfazed, possibly from years of this kind of reaction from Kyle. "Not you. I meant kids like Cartman - "

"Yeah I can see that - "

"-and Butters..."

"What?" I slap a hand over my mouth. The hell? I hadn't meant to talk!

Stan looks over his shoulder at me. "C'mon, Butters? He's always walking around in _those_ shirts - you can't be telling me you like seeing his...you know."

Kyle finishes for him. "Nipples?"

Stan turns a beet red, but nods. "But nevermind. I guess _you'd_ like seeing 'em, huh?" He nudges me with an elbow, obviously expecting me to agree.

I open my mouth, the perfect response already in mind ("Damn right."), but what comes out is, "No."

Stan and I stop walking at the same time, both of our mouths hanging open, both of us in shock. When I look to Kyle for help, he's got that _face_ on again, that face he made when Butters passed by in the hallway.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I want _out_. But if I run away now, Stan'll think I actually _like_ Butters and that's just a whole barrel of awkward that I really don't want to deal with.

I just slug Stan in the shoulder, forcing him to snap out of his daze. "You kidding? I'm not a damn pedo!"

Stan just gives me a nervous grin. "Yeah, 'course not. That's Cartman."

I nod, and Kyle takes that opportune moment to drag Stan away, muttering something about class.

Thank god for that blessed boy.

Then he turns around and gives me that _look_ again. Instead of responding, I give him a very satisfying finger and start for the opposite direction. There's no way I'm going to class after something like that.

* * *

To my surprise, the next person to stop me in the middle of ditching is Cartman. He catches me as I walk out the door of the school, tackling us both into a snowbank because he's mentally retarded and just telling me to _wait_ doesn't occur to him.

"Tell me what's going on here, poor boy."

"Wha - ?" I can't even finish my next _word_ before Cartman's wheels us both into an empty alley and pushes me back against the wall.

"Oh no. _No_ way." I push back, trying to make enough space to wiggle out of, but Cartman uses his bulk to keep me in place. The boy's never lost a single pound in his entire life. Whether those pounds come from muscle or fat - now _that's_ the question.

Somewhere along the road, those muscle supplements that Cartman kept taking finally kicked in, making him some kind of huge, muscle and fat combination of a guy. That was all well and good for him, but meant hell for kids who really needed to get away from him.

Like me.

Cartman doesn't wait for me to stop struggling, his meaty hands grinding my shoulders into the wall until I'm sure one of the bricks is permanently lodged in my back.

"Mercy! Mercy!" I yelp, and Cartman stops pushing me back.

"Stop moving, poor boy!"

"What the _fuck_, Cartman?" I rip one of his unresisting hands off my shoulders, rolling them to get some feeling back in my arms. "What was that for?"

"Tell me." He growls, but my shoulder hurts and I'm irritated and way too desensitized to care about Cartman's I'm-about-to-lose-my-temper attitude.

"Tell you about what?"

"About why you've spread your gayness everywhere!" He throws his hands up into the air to make my "gayness" even more obvious.

"I'm bi - "

"That still makes you, like, half gay! You just wait, your gayness is gonna take over and make you full gay!"

"Being gay isn't contagious - "

"_Yeah_ it is!"

"Is not."

"Is too!"

"Fatass."

"Then what's with all these damn gay couples I've been seeing everywhere? They're _all over the school_. I tell ya, Kinny, this isn't a joke. They're gonna infect everyone!"

I sigh. "You mean Token and Clyde?"

"And Craig and Tweek. And Stan and Kyle. Butters was born gay, so he doesn't count."

"That's only three couples, you idiot."

"Nuh-uh. Four."

"Four?" Then I realize. "Fucking hell, fatass. I'm _not_ going out with Butters."

"Gay sex still counts."

_"I'm not having sex, going out, or crushing on Butters motherfucking Stotch!_"

"Jesus Christ Kinny, what died in your asshole today?"

I groan, slumping back on the wall. That insult was the lowest of the low at our school, ever since we had found out about Mr. Slave's "recreational" activities. It was also one of Cartman's favorites.

"And being gay is totally contagious. I did some survey at North Park High, and we are approximately 400% gayer than they are." He sniffed. "That's proof."

"How does that prove anything?"

"Because after you announced to the whole school you were gay -"

"It was three people, and I'm _bi_ -"

"-everyone started getting gay too. So I came up with one solution."

"Oh, sweet Jesus. Here we go."

"You and Butters have to leave this school, Kinny. I've already come up with a plan - see, I call the cops on you about your drunk parents - they'll believe me 'cause you're Irish - and then they'll ship you off to the orphanage again, like they did when we were kids. You can take Butters in your suitcase."

"I'm not going to leave this school, Cartman."

"Goddammit Kinny, you have to!"

"I'm not going to just up and move because you're fucking afraid of gays."

"We can do this the hard way, or we can go with my plan." Cartman takes a step towards me, and suddenly, he's a lot more threatening. I can see a glint in his eyes, the hard set of his mouth - and in them, the remains of torn stuffed animals filled with Cartman's love, the mom he had shipped off to jail because Cartman had wanted a new family. I see the eyes of Cthulu, the one Cartman had used to destroy us.

I see the chili made from the meat of two parents, simply because Cartman had been humiliated by their son.

All of the sudden, Cartman isn't a whiny, spoiled brat. He's a delusional psychopath with a twisted set of morals and no sense of decency whatsoever.

It shouldn't frighten me. I'm immortal. There really isn't much to lose.

(But then there's Butters, poor Butters, who isn't, who can die, who'll stay frozen and quiet and breathless and cold forever and ever - because he loves me.)

Why?

_Why_? What did Butters ever do?

I push Cartman back, half because my survival skills are kicking in - danger danger _danger_ - and half because he's a complete fucking _douche _for threatening an innocent kid who just happened to like me. "What the fuck? I'm not dating Butters - I don't even like him! And being gay isn't contagious!"

"But all he ever goes on about is you! God, I'm so fucking sick of hearing his gay talk all the time - I swear I'm infected from it." Cartman spat into the ground, face twisting at the memory.

"Doesn't mean I'm dating him! And what do you mean, 'got infected'?"

Cartman doesn't reply, face going red.

No. No way. Is Cartman...does he like a guy?

It all makes sense. The reason he's going to such extremes to erase the gay - the reason Cartman wants to cure the gay infection - is it because he feels something for someone else?

A guy?

And through Cartman's twisted logic, that means he's sick. It's not his fault, it's just the gay sickness going around. And as the resident token bi person, of course he immediately latched onto me as the "problem".

Wow. This was so typically _Cartman_. He couldn't have a normal crush, no - he had to take denial to a whole nother level. He must really be infatuated with the poor kid, whoever he was.

"Look, Cartman..." My voice is a lot softer than it was before. Mistake.

Cartman quickly turns on me, shoving me into the wall again.

"If you tell anyone - _anyone_ - I. Will. Murder. You."

I have no doubt he means it.

Cartman punches me in the face, cracking my head against the wall before leaving in a cloud of curses. I let myself slide down into the dirty snow underneath, trying and failing to stop my head from spinning.

My words; his words; Kyle's _looks_; Butters's blush (how cute); the cross-dressing; Damien's kisses as he looked at my hair, never at my face; Butters when he smiled; his laugh; the feel of his hair -

_"Kenny."_

_"Hmm?" _

_I'm laying back on a rock, cigarette balancing on two fingers while I hold a magazine in the other. Butters is sitting next to me, turning the pages since I can't. _

_I never have to tell him when I'm done. He just knows. He knows a lot of things like that._

_His face is red from the pictures, and he spends as much time hiding his eyes from the pages as he does turning them. It's really, really funny, actually. To be honest, I'm paying more attention to Butters's reaction than I am on the women - after all, I've read magazines like this one a thousand times. _

_As an experiment, I put the cigarette in my mouth for a short while, using my free hand to turn to a particularly hardcore, two-page spread. Butters squeals and turns away, hands covering his eyes._

_"Th-that was b-b-bad!" He moans, the parts of his face visible between his fingers flushing into a deep, dark red. _

_"Aw, don't be that way." I put the magazine down, grinning while I creep up behind Butters. He still had his back to me, whimpering something about his eyes burning. It's almost too cute to bear._

_I'm about to pounce, to pull our bodies together and smell the sun in his hair and taste his lips - _

No. Not like this_._

_I pull back as if I had been burned. Butters just looks at me with those big eyes, eyes that were usually filled with naive purity covered with lust. Lust and...something else._

_Warmth. Understanding. I couldn't put a name on it, but it broke something inside._

_He was looking at me like I was the center of the world. Like I was the main character, for once. And that - was everything I had ever wanted._

_But it was also something that wouldn't stay._

_I was the kind of guy that jumped on kids at a park. I had started reading pornos when I was seven, and was partly responsible for the deaths of countless people. I killed myself on a monthly basis. I played with hearts because I was afraid of my own. I was an alcoholic, a runaway, a coward._

_Whatever Butters saw in me would fade away. We'd fight like my parents did, always blaming each other for their lives, going in circles, killing each other from the inside out. They'd been in love once. Look at what that lead them to._

_Love is hate. And if I had to choose one -_

"Kenny? Kenny!"

I wake up to someone shaking me, hard. My head is pounding and my mouth is dry as shit, but it isn't anything new. Getting beat up is like a major hangover, in some ways.

"Ssstop shaking..."

"Oh th-thank goodness! I th-thought you were d-d-dead!"

"Butters?" I crack open my eyes, just enough to see Butters's trademark hairstyle.

"O-oh gosh, you shouldn't m-move Kenny."

"I don't die that easy, don't worry." I would chuckle, if my head wasn't about to split open. There's silence for a while.

"Hey, Butters?"

"Wh-what's up?"

"Did we ever hang out at the park?"

Butters looks at me like he's thinking about taking me to the hospital after all. "W-well, sure. Plenty of times, with you an-and me and Cartman and Stan and - "

"No, I mean. Just us."

He's quiet for awhile, and just when I've decided I'd dreamed the whole thing up, he spoke up in a soft voice. "Once. And then you st-started a-avoiding me."

"Was I...reading a porno?"

Butters looks hesitant, but he nods anyway. "A-and you showed me a n-n-nasty picture."

Even talking about it made the tips of his ears go red. _How cute_.

I shake my head to dispel unnecessary thoughts, forgetting for a moment that I'm recovering from a concussion. Butters sees me wince.

"Kenny!"

"'m fine, Butters. Calm your tits." Not. The pounding in my head has escalated to WWII levels and I'm wondering just how many Advils I'll have to steal for it to calm down when I feel something cold touch my forehead.

Butters is crouching in front of me, hand held to my head, eyes scrunched in concern. He's too close and I catch myself leaning towards him, his comfortable warmth.

When I'm this close to him, I can feel his heart rate picking up. His breath catching. The hand on my forehead sweating, even though it's minus something degrees outside.

"Butters." I whisper. "You love me?"

Butters isn't breathing, so I lean in and breathe into him. It's not a kiss, not really, but our lips touch and it's a study of breathing in, out. There's no tongue, not even a hint of it, and we don't move any closer than we are because we don't need it. We're already melting into each other, and there's a depth of understanding behind every exhale-inhale.

_I know you._

We sit in the middle of a cold alleyway, breathing into each other, filling up on the love we've been missing for our entire lives.

_If I had to choose one - _

_Love or hate?_

* * *

**Kenny's finally figuring it out! But then again, maybe not... You'll have to wait until the next chapter to see!**


End file.
